


The Soundless Files

by Guynemer



Series: The Guild Wars Black Hole [1]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game), Guild Wars Series (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Development, Necromancy, Nightmare Court (Guild Wars), Plot, Slow Build, Soundless (Guild Wars), Sylvari (Guild Wars), Uneasy Allies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guynemer/pseuds/Guynemer
Summary: The missteps and misadventures of a morally challenged Sylvari with an intolerable personality.
Series: The Guild Wars Black Hole [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592155
Kudos: 3





	1. At Experiment's End

**Author's Note:**

> Herein is the start of an arc belonging to a character by this point already several years developed, which was also written several years ago now - fair warning, the quality heavily reflects this. In short, that's why I'm choosing this as the place to start and from it gauge interest on whether it's worth continuing posting the rest or not. There is simply too much material and too much of it is aged - not to mention I'm just lazy - for me to go back and make anything more than minor corrections/improvements for the sake of readability and anything before this point I struggle to tolerate. I'm fairly confident most questions there might be about characters will be answered in the course of the story's telling for reasons that would become obvious, so one needn't fear being confused or lost... Hopefully. Regardless of that disclaimer, feedback in any capacity is welcome. 
> 
> Also, a quick aside on subject matter: I am of the opinion GW2's setting has a lot of criminally under-explored aspects especially given the narrative tangents which were underwent without actually filling in compelling blanks. Thus, next to nothing I wrote will ever interact with the main story - official canon already covers it thoroughly. My intention is instead to look at lesser elaborated spots in the lore, improvise with the little detail that's there and ultimately create something that is plausible and compliant to the setting but won't ever be fully canon-conforming. Take that for what you will.

Howling wind scythed across the frigid tundra as if in fury at the two interlopers now trudging through the snow that their feet sunk well past the ankle into with each footstep, every inch becoming a battle of its own. The man in the rear through chattering teeth tried to shout but words were snatched away as soon as they left his mouth, Orlaith completely oblivious to his attempts. Despite the hooded greatcoats and furred clothing both wore, and even Orlaith’s natural resistance, death from exposure was an inevitability out in the open. For now they kept as best a pace as they could, the expanse trapping them seemingly never-ending; a quality done no favours by the poor visibility. It was impossible to discern if they were even walking in a straight line - prints left in the snow faded the moment they were out of sight, lost in the blizzard. 

Time slowed to a crawl and all effort felt half as effective as it should. It couldn’t be said with certainty that it was still the same day they had begun crossing anymore. Minutes seemed to drag on for hours and nothing distinct presented itself to provide an anchor for proof of their progress for the longest time. Eventually a break in the otherwise identical snow came into view, though neither had the strength to surge towards it anymore, focusing on just maintaining their shamble onwards. What could have simply been a rock jutting out of the ground became more defined until it was clearly a cave large enough for both to get through the mouth of even with the snow piling up on the decline. Orlaith halted on the edge reaching out to sense any life within the cave, finding nothing of consequence before suddenly feeling something heavy stumble into her back, forcing her forwards. Her first foot found naught solid to stabilise onto until well after her second had already left the ground, tumbling through the deep snow. Distantly she noted how much quieter it suddenly was outside the direct wind, the relative calm almost feeling unnatural. Much stronger was annoyance felt upon the realisation that Rudolf had stopped looking where he was going, hence the two now sprawled out onto a cave floor which felt almost warm in comparison. Any attempts to complain about this were quenched as the bitter cold in her body was filtered out to be replaced with exhaustion. A mental note would suffice for now.

“Alright,” Rudolf started while wringing his shaking hands over the small fire he had nurtured through a mixture of the roots growing along the cave wall and the less practical flammable objects in his pack. “I think it’s fair to say I deserve some answers now. I didn’t agree to this whole thing just to be kept in the dark.”  
Orlaith took her eyes away from the entrance where she had been watching for a change in weather and instead pierced Rudolf with the same passive stare she had worn for the majority of her life by now. If she suffered a chill, it was hidden very well even through the deliberately neutral tone she spoke with. “You came here because you had nothing better to do, you were on the verge of alcoholism and you have a debt to myself several times over.”  
Rudolf glared at her, already aware of all of those reasons but hating them being stated so bluntly. Orlaith meanwhile mused that at least in the blizzard questions weren’t a possibility, sitting against the cave wall.   
“First off,” Rudolf suddenly found himself invigorated with all the stirrings of thoughts he had been building up over the past few days, committing himself fully to the argument now. “I know that whole methodical, precise or whatever you want to call it way of speaking you do is actually just a front, so I don’t see why you’re keeping up with it.”  
Orlaith merely tilted her head slightly in response, something Rudolf was also used to by now. He didn’t let it discourage him.  
“Yeah, I’ve seen you actually speaking normally before, old Rudolf notices more than most people think,” Rudolf wagged a finger at her for a moment, losing his train of thought for a second before continuing. “Secondly, you have now brought me through a blizzard that could flay the skin off of a man. Why? This is about the time a normal person would turn back.”  
He was certain the tilt of the head was silent mockery now. Of course it was, he had after all just implied normalcy and Orlaith ever met in passing, let alone actually intertwined.   
“Nevermind that last part, but the point still stands. What’s so important out here?”  
Orlaith remained staring at him for a while before speaking, those unblinking, inhuman green eyes off-putting enough already without the darkness barely being held at bay by firelight.   
“What do you think the answer is?”  
Rudolf sighed, fully expecting that answer, “Can’t you ever just answer a question straight? For once? I’ve met shattered and melted airship engines that are easier to bloody decipher than you.”

Orlaith said nothing in response. Rudolf began sorting through his own theories, deciding which were the most reasonable to suggest as vaguely as possible to fish for an actual answer.  
“Well, from what you’ve shown me either you’re looking for someone or something, or you’ve just gone completely mental and picked a random direction to start walking in. Maybe you’re suicidal - you can always go back out there if it’s that.”  
Orlaith looked again towards the entrance, eyes blinking, before her head turned back onto Rudolf as she spoke. “Your first guess was correct.”  
Rudolf finally felt like he was getting somewhere before realising she had no intention of continuing. Sighing was to be his habit for the time being it seemed, “And? Who are you looking for? Why?”  
“A human. I wish to find him.”  
“Stop fucking around with these answers that tell me nothing. I could figure out on my own you were looking for him because you wanted to find him. I want to know why.”  
“You will have to be more specific.”  
“What,” Rudolf bit back his frustration. “Has he done to motivate you to look for him, and for what purpose?”  
Something suddenly changed in Orlaith’s demeanor. It was almost impossible to notice, and nothing physical was apparent, but the difference was still there.  
“A man I once knew a long time ago when I followed a path very close to his. Over the years I have made an effort to remain updated on his progress. He no longer makes any, yet his methods have become all the more barbaric for it. I intend to kill him and deprive him of the chance to continue.”  
Rudolf was wrong-footed by such a comprehensive answer and recovered as quickly as he could to speak again, “So this just has to do with morality?”  
“Would such a thing be odd?”  
“Well,” Rudolf cleared his throat, warming up and adjusting himself into a more comfortable sitting position. “Not for most people. Thing is, lift up your right sleeve.”  
“No.”  
“Figured you wouldn’t. If you did though, you’d have the same brand I do. Is a pirate really in a position to judge?”  
“His work achieves nothing practical anymore. I do not especially care if you think knowing when an experiment should end is related to morality.”  
Rudolf nodded slowly before speaking, “That’s about all I wanted to know, then. Could have come out with that at any other time, by the way. Now, I don’t know about you, but I think I’m about to pass out.”

The next few days passed with Rudolf wondering how Orlaith possibly knew where they were going. An eclectic mix of villages passed by, some populated by Norn and others entirely human, yet never once did they stop to ask questions. While on the road he finally decided to ask, having little else to occupy his mind. The last few times he had ventured questions he had actually gotten answers, which almost unnerved him for how unusual it was; this time was no different.   
“He keeps to a schedule. A pattern which becomes clear if you know where he is at any given time over the course of multiple years as I did.”  
“And if he decided to suddenly change it?”  
“His lack of change is precisely the reason I am here.”  
“That’s-” Rudolf mentally shrugged, finding himself agreeing. “Fair enough, I suppose. I don’t reckon you’d be willing to share a guess as to how close we are?”  
“Very,” Orlaith spoke as if the unimproved climate had no effect on her, a boon of her species Rudolf greatly envied. “Relatively. If it was not for your pace we would have arrived by now.”  
“Mine?!” Rudolf hissed incredulously. “You’ve dragged me through more snow than I care to remember AND a blizzard. I think I’ve earned the right to not have to jog all the way.”  
Whether there was an agreement to that sentiment or not, Rudolf wasn’t going to find out. Instead he kept moving, the sound of his own breathing and the mist it swiftly became his closest companions. 

“You’re certain?” Rudolf peered in the direction Orlaith had indicated, seeing nothing in the snow at first until he noticed a patch that looked discoloured. “What is it?”  
“An old Inquest outpost.”  
“Inquest? They’re not still here, are they?”  
“Not as far as I know.”  
The fault in the snow became more obvious the closer they got and the ground suddenly tread much more solidly beneath their feet, but nothing indicated an entire facility lay beneath where they stood. Rudolf almost expected something to happen just from their approach; instead the same gusts of wind he had felt all day continued to flow past him. Orlaith however kneeled with a gloved hand, brushing aside snow until the hard stone of a clearly artificial platform was revealed. A finger got caught in a groove invisible to the naked eye, a panel coming loose along with the dusting that covered it. Beneath lay a button that once pushed caused the discoloured snow to shimmer and fade until a rectangular tar-black sheet of metal which bore the pronounced symbol of the Inquest was revealed, along with a tinny synthetic voice crackling to life. “Manual Override - Keep all limbs clear.”  
Rudolf took a step back. Orlaith replaced the panel and the door slid open with the screeching of metal-on-metal before a dull thud as it stopped three quarters of the way.   
“Error - Maintenance has been notified.”  
Thankfully, the door had been designed to allow the passage of golems. Before either passed the threshold however, Orlaith caught Rudolf’s eye. “I will do the talking.”  
Rudolf nodded, absentmindedly checking if the pistols kept under his coat were still within quick reach, stepping through after Orlaith. 

The corridors looked as if they were bathed in blood; dim red-tinted lights at measured intervals had become so faded one had to concentrate to make out anything clearly. Behind them, the door slid shut with a hiss-turned-clank. A putrid stench slammed into them like a wave, Rudolf having to bite back the instinct to gag. It only grew stronger as they advanced and, to his dismay, at a crossroads the route which carried the scent strongest was the one followed. He knew what caused it and that undoubtedly they would soon be amongst it, a dread he rarely knew building up in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t even dare open his mouth to complain; the air was so thick it felt as if he could swallow it. The same crackling heard when the door first opened broke the oppressive silence though this time the voice behind it, despite sounding shallow and faded, clearly belonged to a man.  
“What.. is it?” the voice coughed, static fading a moment before returning. “What do we have here? Visitors?”  
“He cannot hear us,” Orlaith glanced towards Rudolf, talking as she walked. “Another result of the machinery here aging.”   
Another rasping breath followed the voice’s question before it continued, “Or subjects? It can be hard to tell, sometimes, in this light.”   
Rudolf suddenly felt much too warm but refused to remove any of the layers that prevented his bare skin from being exposed to this place, focusing on keeping his head forward as he walked, jaw clenched.   
“Something about… one of you seems-” the coughing intensified, a terrible wheezing and rattling breath that could be heard even over the passive static before it cut out again. “Familiar. Keep going… the light is better ahead.”  
Rudolf had the thought that he should have asked far, far more questions begin to creep up on him; little to be done for it now. The voice was soon shown to be correct, those red tinted lights being replaced at the end of the corridor with the bright white Orlaith always associated with Asuran operating theatres. That was, however, where the similarities ended. The corridor opened up into a rectangular room, shelf after shelf carved into the stone wall to their left on which nearly every one sat a cylindrical device. Dark fluids stained the floor, some clearly dried blood and others indiscernible; most prominent amongst it were the various impromptu tables scattered about the room on which corpse after corpse was laid out in widely varying stages of decomposition.   
“Ah, of course.” the voice said, breath audibly catching in its throat. “Orlaith, my friend. The only Sylvari who was of more interest to me un-autopsied. It was just yesterday I was wondering when I would see you again, you know. I have so much to show you in person that simply can’t be conveyed otherwise.”  
“Friend?” Rudolf glared at Orlaith. “How does someone end up friends with someone who does this?”  
Rudolf glanced about the room, the urge to retch returning. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned his head, seeing nothing more than the macabre.   
“Good, no?” the voice interrupted an answer. “Testing is nothing without a healthy sample size, as you know. I’m sure you recognise your own methods, but I think I have improved the process.”  
The confirmation of the extent to which Orlaith was involved in this filled Rudolf with an overwhelming disgust. Before he could say anything, he noticed that same movement again; he realised a corpse he was looking straight at... blinked. Every other ‘corpse’ in the room did likewise on their own intervals, and the sinking realisation that the haggard breathing was no longer coming just from the transmitted voice was enough to force him to finally vomit. 

“Please,” the voice spoke up suddenly, coughing again afterwards as its vocal cords were strained. “Refrain from contaminating the subjects. I don’t believe in the concept of friend of a friend policies.”  
Orlaith motioned towards the sealed door opposite the shelves, talking with an evenness that to Rudolf now seemed to eschew all humanity. “Restrain yourself. He has to open that door.”  
“The jars are my design, naturally. I wondered if, if you could trap the essence of a person, could you store that person as a defined entity?” the voice talked as though it were describing things utterly mundane, a hint of disappointment the kind one might have for a mild inconvenience in its tone. “Unfortunately, as we likely both know now, what sustains someone isn’t what… makes them. So I returned to what you showed me all those years ago.”  
No heads moved, but Rudolf started to see eyes meet his. Eyes he couldn’t turn away from that screamed more to him than words ever could.  
“I’m certain it’s all in the balance. I just need to perfect it, to keep the mind intact. These, these are all useless. The mind is gone, they hover on the verge of death but the ‘them’ just goes.”  
The glazed eyes refused to relent, Rudolf incapable of forcing himself to move under their ceaseless scrutiny.  
“Nothing but instinct and feeling left. Worthless for my purposes. I have made progress on the decomposition issue; some of these have been here for months. With more time, maybe I can halt it completely.”  
Orlaith stepped through the rows towards the door, glancing at the mockery of procedure and purpose surrounding her.  
“Your friend must be squeamish, Orlaith. Stiff as a board. Perhaps I was mistaken and you instead brought me a donation. I’ll get the door.”

Beyond this final set of doors the corridor began to twist downwards and the light once again returned to that Inquest red. Rudolf steadied himself and moved past the tables, making a conscious effort to avoid touching anything he didn’t have to. The voice’s words kept echoing within his mind, their damning revelations forcing him to accept he didn’t really know the person he entered this outpost with. He checked his pistols again in case there was any weight to the voice’s other musing. The foulness in the air seemed lessened beyond the doors, or perhaps he was adjusting to it. With growing resentment he noticed Orlaith still didn’t seem bothered in the least by any of it, striding down the hall. He didn’t plan on being left behind now. The last room in the bunker was roughly square, with alcoves in the three walls opposite and adjacent to the corridor. From the range of objects in here, this functioned as the sleeping quarters, observation room and archive of the man who was hunched over a bank of terminals that gave him oversight of the entire facility. The same jars they saw in the first room were scattered throughout, and notes upon notes that from a distance appeared incomplete and some tattered could be found on almost every available surface. Turning to face them, a man that hadn’t looked to be in his late eighties the last time Orlaith saw him cast an eye over both.   
“As you can see-” more coughing interrupted his sentence, phlegm and blood staining the back of his hand. “I have had my own personal… mishaps. I thought I had it right. Instead I lost more decades than I’ve lived.”  
“You are dying.” Orlaith said bluntly. “I could hear the damage your organs have sustained. Now I can see it.”  
“What are we all, if not dying? I can delay it. For years, if I must. And, you must be here for a reason, with the two of us we could find an answer all the quicker.”  
Orlaith stepped forward, visually examining him like she would any other patient. With a sigh that rattled into unsteady breathing, the man raised his arms horizontally, standing as straight as he could. Rudolf remained silent and tried to stay still.  
“I can just describe the symptoms myself if you’re that interested.”  
Orlaith stepped closer into arms reach.   
“And where have you been all this time? Still playing surgeon for the rabble? I’ll never understand why you waste your talent on something so unremarkable.”

Orlaith stopped, staring the withered husk of a man straight in the eyes. Her hand darted to a dagger sheathed at her hip, drawing the blade and driving it into his side whilst his eyes widened sharply and his breath caught, carefully sliding between the ribs. The initial lack of resistance spoke to his physical condition, a shadow-like layer enveloping the man forcing her weapon back out.   
“You _dare_!?” the aged necromancer spat out between sharp breaths, inky darkness spreading across his arms and simultaneously obscuring the new wound. With a haste that defied his rotting frame one hand darted out, the man’s shroud-coated fist coalescing into a spike that pierced Orlaith’s shoulder. Orlaith’s free hand grabbed the spiked limb, fingers clamping onto it like a vice siphoning the life out of him; something that would take a great deal of time with the considerable vitality he had stolen. Rudolf meanwhile couldn’t make out the specifics of anything happening in front of him, though he took the unnerving noise of what sounded like bark creaking and snapping as a sign to spur himself into action. Ears rang as, with one of his many pistols drawn, he fired as close to the man’s head as he felt comfortable getting. Only Orlaith could make out clearly the bullet impacting his shroud, slowing and distorting as if it were pushing through dense water until it stopped tauntingly short of flesh. The mangled lump of metal hit the floor with a gentle clink none heard. Stopping the lethal blow had its cost however, Orlaith feeling a sudden drain on him independent of her own. With a grunt his head snapped towards Rudolf, a lance of shadow bolting towards him.   
“Betrayal, now?! When I have come… so far! When I am so close. For this, you will be my new subjects.”  
Rudolf tried to back away but it snaked through the distance between them much too quickly. The feeling of a shard of ice burrowing through his stomach overwhelmed all else, a terrible chill which nearly froze the blood in his veins forcing him into a stumble to stay on his feet. 

Orlaith’s own shroud played along the fingertips of her hand gripping him, its augmented digits now starting to tear through his defense. The instant a gap was formed her dagger plunged through into his arm, scraping against bone and carving apart skin as if it wasn’t there. Her other hand followed after it, his greying flesh turning black and necrotic before sloughing off. The man’s breathing became more laboured as Orlaith felt bone which splintered, its arm shredding to separation and his tether broken, the spike which had been embedded in her dissolving. The cold Rudolf felt intensified and his life was leached from him with a speed that allowed him to feel himself begin to be torn from his own body.   
“You can’t… do this. Not after… what we’ve done.”  
Orlaith’s left hand snapped onto the shoulder of his remaining arm and held him in place as her   
right rotated the dagger vertically, blade whistling through the air before sinking into his jaw.   
“Someone would catch up to you eventually. You always knew this.”  
Through his maw opening as he tried to scream in both pain and rage she saw the tip pierce the jaw and slice his tongue in twain, continuing towards the roof of his mouth before grinding to a halt, viscous blackness pouring out of his mouth as he redirected everything he had left. Rudolf felt warmth begin to creep back into his ligaments, drawing another pistol that caused a fresh bout of ringing as he shot it with just enough care to prevent hitting Orlaith into the man’s skull. As it hit the flood from his mouth ceased, Orlaith’s blade hilted in his chin and bone fragments skittered across the floor. Releasing him and withdrawing her dagger, his corpse hit the ground in an untidy pile, what little blood there was left in his body beginning to pool. The residual pain of his attempt to drain her was ignored as she wiped her dagger clean and sheathed it, the room starting to reek like the rest of the complex as the festering rot that had been held back artificially within the man’s body was finally brought to the surface. Rudolf lowered his pistol, swallowing the urge to empty an already vacated stomach.  
“I think,” Rudolf said in a voice that was deathly quiet. “You’re going to be answering some questions I didn’t realise I had to even ask.”  
Without waiting for an answer he began unsteadily walking back the way he came, trying to rub some warmth back into his arms. 

Surprising Orlaith, several days went by with Rudolf being unusually silent. This suited her perfectly. It was along the road with not a soul in sight for miles that he eventually stopped walking. Orlaith continued on for several more steps before realising his halt was deliberate, turning to face him. His own face now bore the same mask impossible-to-read mask that hers always did.   
“What that… creature said back there - was it true?”  
The unblinking stare that Rudolf once felt unnerved by no longer had any effect on him.  
“Be more specific.”  
“He said you would recognise your own methods.”  
“Yes. I did.”  
“And exactly what part of all of that was something you had a hand in?”  
“All of it, if you consider the fact that without having met me he likely never would have achieved so much.”  
“If I don’t?”  
“I developed the practice of sustaining a husk which was by all definitions living in terminal condition perpetually. He misused the knowledge to do so.”  
“How do you misuse something like that? It’s just torture.”  
“If it was just torture, it would not be an effective method due to the damage to the psyche it causes. It allowed me greater freedom to fully understand living anatomy; something you have experienced the benefits of personally.”  
“Really?” Rudolf couldn’t decide being shocked or filled with contempt. “You’re going with the ‘ends justify the means’ angle?”  
“Would you prefer I never applied anything I learnt to anyone past myself?”  
Rudolf grit his teeth for a moment before answering. “I can’t say if what you did was worth it or not. But I will say it was fucking barbaric. And… I understand why you had to kill him.”  
Orlaith nodded, turning and continuing to walk as if nothing had happened. Rudolf’s mind moved on to thoughts of finally getting out of the wilderness, but retained his newfound wariness to a degree. Nonetheless, he moved to catch up. 


	2. A Return to Roots

“Who is it?”  
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”  
“Try me.”  
“No, really. You’ll have to see this one for yourself.”  
Shanahan stood up with a sigh from one of his many pistols currently resting on a table disassembled, moving to trudge after Padraig. It was late and he didn’t appreciate interruptions at the best of times; if he wasn’t certain how well the other Soundless knew this he likely would have refused coming at all. The Soundless village cared little for the bright moon rising high in the inky black above - indeed it seemed to feel more active at night. Many dwellings radiated with bioluminescence, the streets between lit ambiently enough, to say nothing of the nocturnal Sylvari who walked amongst them with their own own glows. The bulwark had expanded with the years and as a consequence he spent the next few minutes in Padraig’s wake, exchanging nods and quick answers to the few Soundless which crossed his path. It was only when the gate was in sight and he spotted three figures in its towers - Grigor and two others he couldn’t discern from here - that he spoke to Padraig again.  
“If it’s another Courtier envoy, I’m not going to be happy.”  
“We haven’t had one in months. I think it’s safe to say they gave up.”  
“Dreamers?”  
Padraig snorted as if the suggestion was ridiculous, shaking his head.   
“Fine then, keep your secrets. Doesn’t inspire any confidence, though.”

The gate of the bulwark had by this time become heavily fortified. The sandbar which separated their island from the mainland had been dredged, leaving a path so thin you could get only three men abreast down it. Any other approach would have to be made through water filled with living roots to ensnare would-be sneaks. Towers that always contained at least one member of the Watch dotted the bulwark, staring out over waters illuminated by plant-light dancing across its gentle surface. In the surrounding darkness, the only way to reliably make it across the sandbar without falling in once or twice was to simply know where it already was and, thus, Shanahan could at least deduce it was a past visitor.   
“As I live and breathe.”   
He had not, however, expected to see this particular one. A short distance from the gate stood a Sylvari with eyes that blazed like emerald suns; when he last saw them they had been a much duller green, but the face to which they belonged remained unmistakeable still. As he stood with his hands gripping the bark of the tower tightly, a muttered ‘told you so’ almost escaped his notice from somewhere behind. Ignoring it, he attempted to speak before being interrupted by Orlaith.   
“Shanahan. Last we met, I believe you said I would always be welcome?”  
“Indeed I did.” Shanahan mumbled, practically in disbelief. “Indeed I did. Get the gate, Grigor.”  
Shanahan turned and marched down the steps restraining the maddening curiosity threatening to dictate his pace. Grigor laboured over the wheel in the tower, impressively large and thick doors grown specifically for their resistant qualities slowly opening inwards. He didn’t notice Padraig had remained at his side until he spoke again before the doors.  
“Glad I called you yet?”  
“That…” Shanahan began, reluctantly following it up. “Remains to be seen.”

Orlaith stepped through the gates and at once knew leaving Rudolf behind had, for the time being, been the right choice. Her return would be enough of an explanation, dragging a human into it would only complicate things more. The distant impression that her presence wasn’t exactly appreciated crept into her perception, but no demand for her weapons had been made yet. Taking that as a good sign, the gate widened enough for her to step through and come face to face with Shanahan. He looked older. Not physically, of course, but his eyes spoke it all. Orlaith suspected she could have nearly as many questions for him as he her.   
“I reckon we’ll be spending quite some time talking. No sense jabbering about out here.”  
“We would be in agreement, then.”  
Shanahan nodded, then looked sideways towards Padraig, giving a short thanks as his cue to return to his watch. Turning, he began again the trek to what Orlaith assumed was still both his office and home, not that you could even see it from the gate anymore. As they walked Orlaith ventured a question.  
“Is there something I should know?”  
“Things I shouldn’t, perhaps. Bah, we’ll have all the time in the world to talk about it soon. For now, I won’t deny that it’s good, albeit unusual, to see you.”  
“Likewise. You seem to have done well in my absence.”  
“Indeed, we’ve moved past those early days.”  
Orlaith could see that well enough. She recognised not a single person as they walked, although a great deal of them eyed her with a mixture of intense curiosity and shock. What the latter was about eluded her. Amongst the now comparatively winding paths, two particular objects in a square struck out to her so strongly she couldn’t ignore them.  
“For whom are they dedicated?”  
Shanahan looked over his shoulder towards her, then followed her gaze. Settling on the two burial columns, normally grown by tenders, these had no corpse beneath them and were made of more permanent stone.   
“Cathal, and Brugha.”   
The names meant nothing to her.  
“Overcome by Mordrem influence. They serve as a reminder… and a warning.”  
Orlaith nodded and kept her thoughts to herself. She had more than enough for one mind on Mordremoth and saw no need to indulge them. Shortly afterwards Shanahan stopped at a door she finally did recognise. Casting her eyes about the building, it was impossible to not feel as if she had stepped into the past.  
“I see you have changed nothing in all these years.”  
“I prefer to keep things simple, even if everything outside these walls insists on becoming less-” Shanahan paused with a grunt as he pressed a shoulder to the door, forcing it open with a quick shove. “So. Started to stick a little sometimes, though.” 

Orlaith followed him into the dimly, but not unwelcomingly so, lit building, a candle flickering away in a lantern atop a table which Shanahan walked behind and sat at, putting his feet up on the timber carefully to avoid bumping into any of the stripped pistols’ components. Orlaith quickly found a spot on the wall to lean into with crossed arms and waited for Shanahan to speak, who studied her carefully before doing so.   
“I don’t know anything of your past decade.”  
Shanahan’s arms crossed, stalling to work out how to phrase a conversation he never anticipated having.  
“In truth, I started to think you were dead. And that maybe it was for the best.”  
Orlaith didn’t interrupt, instead giving him the time to speak his thoughts at his own pace.  
“The decade previous, however. I didn’t believe it at first, put it down as coincidences or rumours. Too many of those changed my tune. You know, I thought you had ended up a Courtier when I heard about the state of some of those corpses.”   
“Indeed. It was not a clean process.”  
“Not a ‘clean process’? How did an interest in medicine turn into that?”  
A look of incredulousness came over him, but not anger nor hatred. Though, she had never known him to display either of those things.  
“Surgery and necromancy. I was yet to hear of the combination and no frontier is bloodless.”   
Shanahan watched her carefully, absorbing what was said in some capacity.   
“Frontier. The pursuit of progress.” Shanahan found his second sigh of the night. “At the time I thought it cruel and barbaric. An injustice beyond words and whatever other kind of grandiose diatribe you want to come up with. Perhaps it was, is. Learned myself eventually that everyone has their own reasons and one’s rarely more valid than the other. I’ve never known yours to be especially egregious, however.”  
Shanahan pointed towards a glass bottle on a small table beside Orlaith containing a liquid of Krytan origin, from the label.  
“Toss that, would you?”  
Wordlessly she took the neck of the bottle and passed it towards him, the vessel caught around its base before being upturned into a glass. Shanahan continued as it poured.  
“That’s why that gate opened for you. I don’t think I need, or want, an explanation anymore. So I’ll just keep things brief,” placing the bottle down, his eyes darted towards the glass as he took a sip of amber liquid before returning his gaze to Orlaith. “You never go anywhere or do anything without a purpose. So, what’s it going to be this time?”

She responded without missing a beat or appearing disgruntled by his previous comments in the least.  
“I am looking for someone. A Dreamer which turned Courtier some years ago. Specifically a Courtier in this area; you may have even encountered them recently.”  
Shanahan shook his head slightly before speaking. “Not likely. Courtiers switched from coming here to enslave us to asking for sanctuary. That is, until they stopped coming at all.”   
“Sanctuary from what?”  
“Hah,” Shanahan stifled the laugh before it went further. “The Call, of course. Seems like it was worse for Courtiers and Dreamers than us. Frankly, you’re asking the wrong person about this anyway.”   
Orlaith tilted her head, a habit which had only grown more eerie to the observer over the years.   
“Who do you suggest?”  
“A Courtier, of course.”  
“You mean to say you allowed Courtiers in?”  
“No,” Shanahan swirled the last of the liquid in his glass around before swilling it, lowering the glass and letting it fall a harsh centimetre to the table on its own with a thunk. “This one was something of an exception. Best I show you.”   
Orlaith nodded, standing up straight again as Shanahan himself ambled towards the door, dragging it open and stepping out into the cooling air. A foot behind him, she had to agree that his door was badly in need of some maintenance if the effort of shutting it was anything to go by. Instead of going back towards the gate, the pair now walked further into a part of the village that hadn’t existed last she’d been here.   
“The Courtier will explain most of it to you, they’ve been surprisingly forward with their answers. Whether any of it’s true or not you’ll have to judge for yourself.”   
“What made you trust a Courtier enough to allow them in?”  
“That uh, again, something I’ll let them explain. Trust isn’t exactly the right word either; we confined them to a cell block we built after the Cathal and Brugha incident. Never needed it until they arrived.”  
Before long they arrived at a quiet corner that only held the buzzing of crickets, lapping of small waves and quiet conversation of two guards stationed to the small tube-shaped building nestled against the bulwark. As they glanced in their direction, they were again unrecognised by Orlaith.   
“How many have come here now?”  
“I would have to consult a census. A lot, is what I can say.”  
“There are more Soundless now just in this village than there were in the world when I left.”  
“New generations, that’s for sure. A lot of forced disillusionment with what’s happened to the Grove in recent years, but they’re welcome here if they can find a place.”  
Shanahan waved to the guards, returning their nods and making room for him to step into their conversation. Before doing so, Shanahan left Orlaith with a few words.  
“Head on in, you’ll find them right away. I’ll be out here if you don’t take too long.”  
“I will try not to.” 

A benefit of most Sylvari constructions including natural bioluminescence, the interior of the holding cell was remarkably well lit. Nonetheless, a dark figure in the corner with legs drawn into its chest was impossible to distinguish, save their green eyes ebbing and flowing with an intensity which watched Orlaith like a hawk over arms folded atop kneecaps.   
“I have some questions I expect you can assist me with, Courtier.”  
Silence met her for a time and Orlaith quickly started to regret this seemingly wasted endeavor. Before turning to leave however a voice responded; one she was certain sounded familiar.  
“My help? I thought we were even.”  
Orlaith scrutinised the prisoner more carefully, trying to discern something, anything of greater detail.   
“Elaborate.”  
The Courtier stood up suddenly, and unsteadily. Evidently she had been sitting in that position for quite some time. What caught Orlaith’s attention however was the fact that for the second time in her life she was looking at an almost identical, if a little shorter, copy of herself.   
“Been a while, Orla.”  
The Courtier stepped forward, the passive smirk on her face that betrayed her appearance from Orlaith’s the most strongly present, stopping only at the taut vines serving as bars separating them.   
“I do not believe I ever got your name.”  
“Ah,” the Courtier shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter anyway. Different to the one I’m using now.”  
“Whichever you prefer, then.”  
“Well,” she laughed, a surprisingly honest one devoid of wickedness. “That’d still be different than the one I’ll give you. You can call me Máille til I get mine back.”   
Orlaith felt her curiosity at how this particular Courtier ended up here override the questions she had intended to ask, quite unable to stop them.  
“Why are you here, Máille?”  
“Oh, you know, needed the bathroom, made a wrong turn. Silly mistake, I know, but…”   
Máille let her sentence trail off with a shrug and grin that widened for a moment.   
“Escaped Krait only to be captured by Soundless.” Orlaith mused.   
“Well,” Máille’s head cocked. “All part of my plan to reacquaint myself with your lovely personality. Meetings in prison cells truly are our habit.”  
Orlaith blinked, giving no other response. The Courtier let it hang for a moment before ‘achk’ing and waving a hand dismissively.  
“Could never tell if you didn’t like humour - or just mine. Alright, not my finest moment, and I’d rather not get into it. What’re you here for?”

“I need information on a Courtier. Previously a Dreamer, gained a habit for torture and converted.”  
“How long ago?”  
“Approximately five to six years past.”  
“Name?”  
“Chuilleanáin.”   
Something flickered across Máille’s face, but only briefly. Anger? Disgust? Some kind of recognition, certainly.  
“We’ve met, sure. What’s your business with him?”  
Orlaith considered being evasive for a moment, but instead went with honesty.  
“I plan to kill him.”  
Máille nodded slowly, ponderously, before she quickly fixed Orlaith’s eyes in her own.  
“Alright, I’ll tell you where you can probably find him. On one condition.”  
Wary of Courtiers and conditions, Orlaith begrudgingly nodded her assent to hearing the request.  
“I want to help.”  
“Telling me will help.”  
“Personally.”  
“You will be personally telling me, thus personally helping.”  
Máille rolled her eyes. “With the killing part.”  
“Why?”   
Máille shrugged again. “Any number of reasons. You’re so much fun to be around, I’m getting bored of being locked in a building, I’m sick of people looking at me weirdly because I look like you. Or, you look like me, whichever the case may be.”  
Orlaith cut her off from saying anything else, swiftly.  
“Beyond the superficial. Why help kill a fellow Courtier?”  
Máille stared at Orlaith for a moment, eyes unfocusing until they were looking through her as if she wasn’t there. Then, thoughts marshalled, Máille spoke.  
“When we last met, on that beach. Do you remember what I said? About Courtiers?”  
“‘Courtiers tend to lose the run of themselves without leadership for a while.’”   
Máille’s eyes narrowed for a moment before a quick laugh shook her.   
“Wow, nothing more exciting happen to make you forget that yet? Then again, I remember it too. I was a Duchess, he was in a rival Court.”  
“I doubt your reason is simple rivalry.”  
Bitterness crept into Máille’s expression. “To put a bloody story in of itself short, my Court didn’t survive The Call elegantly. His survived it more intact, and their Duke fancied himself a vulture to come in and take advantage of what was left, cull some opposition. A good few Courtiers who survived a lot worse and deserved much better died that day.”  
Orlaith had little care to empathise with the average person, and struggled even more so for dead Courtiers, but an eye for an eye was a language universally understood.   
“I have little goodwill left here, but I will try to convince Shanahan the benefit of your release.”  
“Something else, Orla.”  
Pausing in her turn to leave, Orlaith looked towards Máille again.  
“I’m happy to help you get rid of that rat, but I have a list that includes more than him. I expect a sort of quid pro quo, as the humans are wont to say.”   
“We will see.”

Shanahan, who was mid-yawn, caught Orlaith out of the corner of his eye leaving the cells. Turning towards her, he waited with hands resting on pistols holstered at his hip expectantly.   
“I would like the Courtier released.”  
Shanahan stared at her incredulously; the guards beside him turned and did likewise.   
“You what?”  
“You’re joking.”   
Shanahan overrode their disbelief with his own question.  
“Just out and about? Not a chance.”   
“Into my custody. I have a use for the Courtier, one they cannot fulfill while confined here.”   
“You mean to say,” Shanahan began slowly, hoping a solution to his Courtier problem had arrived. “You’ll leave with the Courtier?”  
“This is not a problem, I hope?”   
“No, no in fact I’m more than happy to hand her over. I didn’t like the alternatives of just turning her loose or executing her. Do I dare ask if either of those things are your intent?”  
“They are not.”  
Shanahan motioned towards one of the guards.   
“Release the Courtier. I’ll escort them out personally.”  
The guard left with a nod, leaving Shanahan to look Orlaith over curiously.  
“You know, when Padraig and Grigor first saw that Courtier half-dead they thought it was you. Only reason she was brought in, didn’t realise it was someone else until she, well… Spoke, I suppose.”   
“It explains the reactions earlier.”  
Shanahan gave a non-committal ‘Hm,’ lost in thought for a moment.   
“I would describe it a shame for you to return only to leave again… but I think you’ve surpassed this place.”   
Orlaith let that hang unanswered, feeling no need to vocalise her own agreement.   
“I would dislike for us to part on ill terms. We were friends once.”  
“Once?” Shanahan echoed, glancing towards her. “It was only for a brief time long ago I didn’t consider you one. You don’t belong here anymore, true, but if you weren’t a friend we wouldn’t have spoken at all tonight.”  
Shanahan held his gaze a moment longer before looking towards the guard holding an oddly shaped bag escorting the now freed Courtier.  
“That is… appreciated.” 

As they walked back towards the gate Shanahan couldn’t help but look between Orlaith and Máille.  
“That resemblance really is uncanny. And neither of you are twins?”  
“No.” came the responses, one monotone and one laced with a hint of frustration.  
“Ah, and that’s where the similarity ends. Anyway, as I was saying. Your weapons,” Shanahan shrugged the bag slung over his shoulder. “Courtier, will be returned once you are past the gate.”   
“You kept them? That’s uh, thanks. A lot of Courts complained about you, but personally I don’t see it.”   
Shanahan shrugged, coming up to the gate. “It’s hard to be kind towards someone who consistently resists you. Hard for a Courtier especially.”  
Shanahan waved a hand towards the Sylvari in the tower - Padraig and Grigor were gone - then motioned by dragging his free hand through the air towards himself repeatedly for them to open the gate. Soon afterwards it slowly began to do so, Shanahan taking their last chance to speak.  
“I will warn you Courtier, and you by extension Orla; this is not a refuge for Courtiers. Despite the lack of trouble you have caused, it never will be. To be perfectly clear, you will not be allowed in again, and neither will you if you still have this Courtier in tow.”  
“Fair enough.” Máille shrugged.   
“I understand.”   
“Good.” Shanahan nodded, the gate wide enough for them to pass now and opening no further. “Then, I suppose, I will wish you luck with whatever it is you’re doing. Try not to leave it so long next time.”  
Máille had already walked out, catching the weapon-filled bag thrown her way by Shanahan.   
“I will try, but make no promise.”   
With a final nod Orlaith turned to leave, much as she had nearly twenty years before. Then again, much was different. She never suspected to find a Courtier walking at her side, least of all one that she now had to rely on.


	3. Höldum nú á feigðarinnar fund

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick sidenote: Chapters from hereon will probably always have weird titles. Don't worry about it.

The lacking wisdom in trusting a Courtier rattled about Orlaith’s mind even as fingers of sunlight which bore no warmth began to pierce the trees, bathing the grey and withered leaves on the forest floor in pale shades observed absentmindedly from her perch atop the bough of an oak. So consumed had she been that only now did she notice the tiredness garnered from another sleepless night which tugged at the edges of her consciousness; the Courtier may be a guide, but not one she would give any opportunities. Naturally, then, with the Courtier having no such reservations, it almost annoyed Orlaith to see her rise some hours later from where she had been carelessly sprawled out upon the ground looking well-rested. Eyes flicking back towards the wider world outside the small hollow, she pushed thoughts of rest to the back of her mind in preparation for the day to come. The sound of metal rustling against metal drew her sight back again, Máille having walked over to join Orlaith beside the waist-high branch with a stretch.   
“Have to admit,” she said with a wince, rubbing tension out of a shoulder through the metal links of her hauberk. “Concepts such as not sleeping on the ground really can’t be overrated.”  
Máille set her elbows on the bough, joining Orlaith in staring outwards for a few moments. Promptly bored, she continued with a sarcasm-laced remark.  
“Didn’t someone come up with a solution for that? You know, like an inn. Forget about those?”  
Orlaith’s response came quick and sharp, only amplified by the emotion-lacking tone she almost always spoke in.  
“I have no desire to enter the Grove. Neither do you.”  
Máille let her head roll as far as her neck would allow onto her shoulder, a tinge of exasperation in her eyes, before parting her interlocked fingers and flicking her palms skyward in an exaggerated ‘you got me’ gesture.   
“Damn,” she murmured with a mite of mirth, letting her hands connect again with a clap. “Are you always like this, or have I just not found the right icebreaker yet?”   
“I am not here to socialise,” slipping onto her feet, Orlaith turned to meet Máille’s eyes in her unblinking own. “Where can I find Chuilleanáin?”  
“Yeah…” Máille began, stifling a wince. “About that.” 

Orlaith didn’t show it, but internally felt a frustration reserved specifically for Courtiers and their dealings begin to well up in herself. A Courtier uttering the words ‘about that’ were enough to already strain it to the point of breaking.   
“I have my own problems, and they do coincide with yours… Just not in the order you want. And I did warn you, quid pro quo.”  
To her credit, Orlaith managed to not appear even slightly angry.   
“Courtiers have dictated to me before. I do not intend to repeat the experience.”   
In a spot of extremely uncanny unintentional mimicry, Máille tilted her head slightly to the side without saying anything.  
“You mentioned debt earlier.”  
Máille didn’t speak for a second, expecting Orlaith to go on. When she didn’t, Máille realised she was meant to demonstrate she was in fact paying attention.  
“I mean, I was joking at the time but-”  
“Consider yourself indebted for your release. I intend to collect immediately.”  
Máille wasn’t sure exactly what she was expecting, but the stiff resistance from the taller Sylvari deflated her intentions. Still, she reckoned, couldn’t hurt to try a bit more.  
“What guarantee do I have that you’ll help me after? Why should I trust a Soundless?”  
“Why should a Soundless trust a Courtier?”  
Máille again found herself admitting the point, though it had begun to irk here.  
“Fine, we’ll do it your way. Nothing like owing each other our lives - again - to solidify trust.”   
Máille returned to where she had slept, securing a belt off of which a long dagger - practically a shortsword - hung around her waist. Curiously, Orlaith noted, she also carried a rifle now slung over her back for which she seemed to have no ammunition. Putting the lesser questions aside, she focused on more pressing ones to ask along the way.

“Where is Chuilleanáin?” Orlaith echoed as they walked, Máille taking the lead.   
“Exactly? I don’t know. Shouldn’t be a problem finding some underlings who do, though.”  
They didn’t avoid the roads per say, but over the hours their path certainly seemed largely devoid of them. Expecting that to mean this was a more direct route Orlaith let Máille guide, following behind only asking imperative questions. In case she had to return alone for whatever reason she did her best to remember what landmarks as could be discerned; the forest stretched on and on blurring in all directions, encouraging the wandering of a mind. It was only when the subtle darkening of the woods became so pronounced that Orlaith truly took stock of her surroundings again. Here the dull browns and muted greens of tall tree trunks shaded towards the black, roots akin to blighted tendrils gouging into the earth. Far above the canopy had solidified into a mass of tangled branches, the few gaps in the leaves allowing occasional shafts of light to pierce the otherwise gloomy veil now enveloping them. Worst of all, the chilled air they had grown accustomed to was replaced with one thick with humidity of the sort you expected from a swamp. Máille stopped, pulling the collar of the padded shirt beneath her chainmail away from her neck for a moment, muttering darkly.  
“Typical. The air itself feeling more miserable to know you’ve gone and walked into Courtier territory.”   
Were Orlaith a human sweating would betray her discomfort. Instead, she ignored it and scanned the trees ahead of them more carefully, noticing nothing.  
“You disapprove?”  
“I do,” Máille nodded, pulling her rifle off her back and finding a relatively flat root nearby to sit upon, leaning into the trunk they sprouted from with a shrug. “Never really saw the point in torturing the land.”  
Orlaith looked between Máille and the direction they had been heading. “What are we waiting for?”  
“Waiting indeed. A patrol.”  
“How often do they pass?”  
“Every few hours, depending on when they left. Sooner if they managed to get a hold of anyone in their raids.”   
Máille’s head angled skyward, relying on her ears to alert her of whatever would come. Orlaith found her own spot nearby, daring not to remain idle lest she nod off. Instead, she focused on the presence of lesser beings, seeing the faint traces of life-force belonging to any number of creatures which darted and roosted amongst the forest. Eventually however, she found herself staring at Máille.

“You are dissimilar to most Courtiers, are you not?”  
“Dissimilar?” Máille’s head shifted towards Orlaith. “From the ones you’ve met, apparently.”   
“My experiences with your kind can be summarised with seditious and treacherous.”   
That caused Máille to wince with a sharp inhale of air for dramatic effect before responding.  
“I hope that doesn’t include me, I thought we were getting along swimmingly.”   
“It is…” Orlaith considered for a moment before grudgingly admitting. “Yet to. It is what sets you apart.”   
Máille tilted her head again, a habit Orlaith was mildly disconcerted to see in a mirrored version of herself.   
“I don’t know what else you would expect. Why would you hear about the ones who want to pursue the philosophy quietly themselves?”  
“And what of this philosophy do you partake in?”   
A smile formed on Máille’s face, one which bore no malice.  
“Another time, perhaps. Why ruin such a,” her tone adopted a more sarcastic edge. “Lovely outing in the woods with talk of politics and principle?”  
Máille looked upwards once more, returning to her basking in a sunlight which wasn’t present. Taking that as the conversation’s conclusion, Orlaith joined her in silently listening. 

The sound of shouting, followed by raucous laughter, broke the ambiance. Máille wordlessly caught Orlaith’s eye and held up a hand for her to wait as they drew closer. Once their footsteps became audible, heavy boots plodding onto hard-packed soil mixed amongst a conversation which wouldn’t be out of place in a tavern, Máille stood and nodded for Orlaith to follow. Grabbing her rifle and holding it loosely by the barrel at her side, she strode lazily down from where they had been concealed into sight of the Courtier patrol seemingly without a care in the world. Orlaith, close behind, followed her lead and sized up what they were walking into. The patrol contained two obvious Courtiers, the bark they clothed themselves with stained many a dark shade. Ahead of them they encouraged three Sylvari captives, hands bound and misery etched into their expressions, to move with the snap of a thorned whip whenever their pace slackened. Raising her free hand upwards in greeting, Máille called out towards them.  
“What news!?”  
Suspicious at once the Courtiers halted their march whilst hands reached for their weapons. Looking between each other for a moment, the shorter of the two spoke.  
“Who’s asking?”  
“Friend of a friend, of a friend, of a friend of a friend who is a friend of…” Máille stopped for a second in thought, making a show of thinking about something, without stopping her gait. “Of a friend who isn’t very friendly.”  
The two Courtiers looked between each other again, confused. Not for long however, as they soon drew their weapons.  
“Quit your drivel or you’ll find yourself joining our friends here.”   
The Courtier motioned towards the three Sylvari who held their tongues, averting their eyes from the confrontation altogether. Máille sighed, just a few feet away, lifting her shoulders in a shrug.  
“Ah, I’ll be honest. Never really been much good for a distraction.”  
In an instant her raised shoulders became obvious as more than a means of expression, her free hand to join the others grip on the rifle barrel and lifting it like a club. In a panic the Courtier tried to hastily slash at her with his blade, the razor-sharp edge sliding uselessly against the armour’s interlocking chains. Before he could make another attempt, the butt of her rifle cracked into his jaw, dislocating it and stumbling him to the floor with enough force to give a human brain damage. The second Courtier rushed forward with an extended arm, flame flickering in a palm destined for Máille’s throat. Before it connected however, Orlaith, who had closed the distance, intercepted his wrist with her own hand. The Courtier, focused overmuch on Máille, was surprised for a moment to face resistance. Switching his attention to Orlaith his other hand gripped an especially brutal thorned mace fashioned after a human morningstar and started to twist around to crush into her. Before it could get halfway through its arc the terrible sensation of his arm being overtaken with rot, like a diseased branch left to bloat in a river, overwhelmed him. Jagged fingers dug into the softening bark of his forearm, a needle-sharp pain causing him to gasp and drop his weapon, grasp darting to try and pry Orlaith’s fingers off. The tip of one of Orlaith’s daggers penetrating his stomach, hilting once its blade was lodged between his pseudo-ribs, connected sooner.   
“Thanks,” she heard Máille say quietly as she re-sheathed the half-drawn shortsword. “For that.”   
With the breath knocked out of him he was unable to scream at his fingers leaving imprints in his ruined arm, instead stumbling backwards and aided by Orlaith retrieving the dagger. 

With the two Courtiers indisposed, the second doubly so after a swift kick from Máille, they were left with the three Sylvari; Dreamers, Máille informed Orlaith.  
“Do any of you know where you were being taken?” Orlaith watched the reactions to her question closely, searching for any sign of deceit. Three shaking heads were the response. She hadn’t been too hopeful that they could avoid questioning the Courtiers anyway, instead raising her sap-soaked dagger again to cut through their surprisingly durable vine-like restraints. The last met her eyes, barely more than a sapling, speaking with a voice indicative of youth.  
“Why did you help us?” he asked, eyes darting towards Máille, rifle balanced over her shoulder. “You’re a Soundless and… she’s a Courtier.”  
At the mention of ‘she’ and ‘Courtier’ Máille glanced over, pointing at herself with a smile in askance.   
“My dear Soundless friend here has taught me the error of my evil ways! I’m a reformed Courtier, dedicated to rescuing Dreamers who get lost on their walks in the forest.”   
“The why is irrelevant. Leave. Quickly.”  
The Dreamers now collectively looked between the two with a degree of unease before turning and quickly walking, soon jogging, back the way they had come. Left with two unconscious Courtiers spare bindings were found in their possession and soon repurposed for them, hands and legs tied tightly together. Orlaith kept an eye on the one she had stabbed; life was leaving him, slowly but surely. Without treatment he was certain to die from blood loss. She mentioned this to Máille. A short while, and some prodding along with a jaw being put back in place, later, the two Courtiers awoke to find themselves being stared down at by, from where they sat, two identical Sylvari. 

“Let’s keep this short and simple, shall we? Answer my questions and we’ll all be on our way.”   
One of the Courtiers glowered at the pair, though the other, whose arm had been ruined, had something else in his eyes - fear, perhaps - and remained silent as his compatriot spoke.   
“I remember you, now.”  
Máille knelt down in front of the Courtier, a smile affixed to her face.  
“Is that right? Who am I?”  
“The Duchess,” he said, drowning the words in mockery. “Who thought so much of herself… Until we slaughtered her Court like dogs.”   
Orlaith couldn’t see it from where she stood, but something sinister did now enter Máille’s eyes.  
“All things considered, I’ve been very fair with you. Don’t make me change that.”  
The Courtier laughed, a dislodged sap-soaked tooth falling from his mouth.   
“So much for your high ideals. Now look at you, crawling about with your Soundless twin. I’d say you’ve fallen far, but you’ve only really dropped the pretense.”   
Again the Courtier laughed, spewing spittle and revelling in the effect his words had on Máille, even if it was certain the building anger would be directed at him.  
“When Chuilleanáin gets his hands on you, oh, the fun he’ll have. He has to pay you back for your friends all managing to get themselves killed before visiting him. And a twin too, so long since he’s-”  
Máille stood and drew her shortsword with a neatness that demonstrated experience, plunging it downwards into his neck. The blade punctured deeply, tip ending somewhere in his stomach. His taunt died on his lips with a sickening choke, steel filling his throat. His body, forced to remain still by the blade, fell backwards with its removal. Rounding on the second Courtier and letting her sap-soaked sword fall before her in clear view of the Courtier both as a threat and for her own balance, Máille spoke with a tone warningly devoid of all emotion; Orlaith almost thought she had interjected herself without realising it.  
“Where is Chuilleanáin?”

The Courtier glanced over at his dead comrade and then Máille’s blade. He didn’t speak, but panic was burrowing into him. Máille followed his gaze to the sword, passive friendliness returning to her voice.  
“What, this? You needn’t worry; you’re already dying from your wound. Well, the second one. But I do have some good news for you.”  
Máille glanced towards Orlaith who remained silently observing.  
“What are you again? Butcher or doctor?”  
“Surgeon.”  
“Ah yes, halfway between.”  
Máille raised her hand and pointed at the sap leaking from the Courtier’s wound.  
“Means she can fix that. Of course, she doesn’t really want to; you help us and I’ll see if I can change that.”  
The Courtier reluctantly nodded, finding his tongue.  
“Wychmire Ravine; you know it?”  
“I do.”  
“You’ll find him there.”  
“Why is he not with the rest of his Court?”  
“The… The Duke said he needs to work without interruptions… So he moved there, along with a small retinue.”  
Máille nodded, standing and turning towards Orlaith.   
“Shall we go?”  
“W-wait-” the Courtier on the ground weakly called out. “You said you’d help-”  
Máille cut him off, staring Orlaith in the eye as she spoke. Whatever she was feeling was remarkably well disguised.   
“Do you feel like stitching him back together, Orla?” Máille clearly asked without caring for an answer, not giving Orlaith the chance to respond. “Alas, I tried and failed. Unfortunate.”  
The Courtier was left with his mouth opening and closing dumbly as he realised he was going to bleed out, alone and in the middle of nowhere. When they were side-by-side some distance away, Máille talked with a measured tone.  
“In case you hadn’t figured it out already, this is personal. They deserve what they get. Not just for what they did, but for who they are.”  
Orlaith noticed a deliberate weight applied to the latter statement, but chose not to ask for the time being.   
“I will take your word for it.”  
Máille looked towards Orlaith, nodding her appreciation, and showing a grim hint of humour.  
“Some trust at last, and it only took two corpses.”

The route to Wychmire Ravine, as it turned out, proved to be one in which you had to be surefooted to avoid being turned around, or outright lost. Without Máille it was very likely the latter would have been a certainty. Instead, they made what could be described as good progress. The seasonally short days and creeping exhaustion which Orlaith felt but wouldn’t admit to made neither fond of descending into the ravine proper. Retracing their steps they found a nearby hollow between trees so old their roots had begun to twist together like serpents, far enough out of sight to pass the night relatively safely. Once settled Máille looked at Orlaith across the hollow, succumbing to curiosity.  
“You know my reasons; why are you so interested in Chuilleanáin?”  
“Does it matter beyond our goals aligning?”  
“Be fair, Orla. I answered your questions.”  
Despite Orlaith’s eyes appearing brighter than usual, weariness had found its place within them. Regardless, she resolved to tell the story if it meant she could sleep unbothered.   
“I knew him as a Dreamer. I dislike having any part in Sylvari politics and by extension dislike involving myself with Dreamers. Despite that he showed an aptitude I could not deny, and an interest I could not abate, in surgical practice.”  
Máille already saw the threads of the barbarism Chuilleanáin had become famous for take shape, but bid Orlaith continue.  
“For a time he used what I taught him in its intended purposes. Ultimately, he discovered he desired the power of holding life in his hands over aiding the wounded. The torture he began to inflict on patients was out of personal satisfaction; the last contact I had with him was a letter in which he informed me he had been discovered and exiled. He claimed this had been for the best and that his place was within the Nightmare. I believe you know the rest.”  
Máille thought that over for a while, finally reaching a conclusion.  
“I’m glad.”  
Orlaith’s head tilted slightly.  
“How so?”  
“You said you don’t do friends last we met; I’d have been a little annoyed if you made an exception for him.”   
Máille grinned opposed to Orlaith’s blank face and unblinking stare. When she said nothing for over a minute though, Máille’s nerve started to falter. It was only when she noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing that it dawned on her that Orlaith was in fact sleeping with her eyes open. Putting that aside as somewhat disconcerting, Máille worried about her own sleep.

Wychmire Ravine was bordered by boulders jagged on one side and smooth on the other from the centuries of moving water. Whether the source had dried up, or the water dammed, none now flowed across the wide and eroded ravine floor. While getting to said floor was precarious at parts, once there the path became considerably easier; the most they had to contend with was the occasional fallen branch which had come to rest in the once-river’s bottom. It widened ahead into what would have been a tributary, though now it served the purpose of a camp: The roots of trees above spilt into the ravine, though these twisted into the tortured and spiked forms favoured by Courtiers. Manipulated into walls, the entrance to the tributary had been choked. Whatever lay beyond was unclear from this distance and left little choice but to move forward.   
“Orla?”  
“What?”  
“I’d appreciate it if I put the wretch down.”  
“I do not care how he dies, so long as he is dead.”  
Once past the walls it was clear why no guard was posted; everything beyond them had been designed to match an amphitheatre, stairs and benches roughly carved out of rock, the stage of which was dominated by the chopping-block of a viridian Sylvari who stood over what Máille, and on some level Orlaith, sincerely hoped was a corpse. Bark in many places had been chiselled, flayed or peeled away, the softer layers beneath a mess of sap-filled gouges rent by barbs, the odd finger, toe and nail missing. Cracked and blackened flesh contrasting the otherwise blue told of where it had been burnt and boiled. Little of the face was recognisable anymore, eyeballs reduced to a bloody pulp and the spike which did it still embedded. The knowledge of feeling how little time had passed since life had finally left the twisted body filled Orlaith with disgust. Two Courtiers blocked their path, caught between standing watch and looking on with morbid curiosity. They both whirled to face the intruders when Chuilleanáin looked up and noticed them, his face a far cry from its younger form; in all ways it had become more angular and refined, an almost savage grace to its features. Instead of leaves for hair, the bark on his head had hardened into ridges which ran the length of the scalp. Most noticeable were the eyes; they had become solid black orbs of the kind which could be seen in the sockets of dead Mordrem. When he spoke it revealed a jaw filled with incisors filed to a point and a voice twisted by cruelty.   
“So good, if unexpected, to see my old tutor,” his predatory features curled into a grin containing no warmth. “Had you come but a few minutes earlier, you could have been here for the crescendo.”

He raised his hands dramatically like a conductor, a length of thorn coiled around one instead of a baton, sap coating his arms. When his Courtier guards moved forwards, Chuilleanáin’s voice rang out again, halting them in their tracks with visible discomfort.   
“Stay where you are, please. Who is this you have brought to me?”  
His dead eyes settled on Máille, conjuring the feeling of icy fingers plunging into her spine.   
“I never knew you had a twin. Almost tricked me,” he looked between the pair, grin widening. “Spotting which was which. That’s very generous of you.”  
He stepped out from behind the slab where he worked, untangling the thorn and letting it fall to the ground, along with a few drops of sap from where it had wound so tightly it cut into his own skin. Despite the distance he felt much too close for comfort, standing with his hands behind his back.  
“Or very fortunate? I don’t think I ever told you how much I enjoy twins, before you stopped responding. Ignoring me. Breaking one as the other watches… Truly, you must experience it to understand.”  
Máille’s hand had quite unconsciously come to rest on the pommel of her shortsword, something the Courtier guards watched closely. Revulsion filling her, Orlaith spoke.  
“You have overstepped yourself, Chuilleanáin.”  
“Overstepped? No, surpassed. My art is more refined than ever, certain for you to envy. I insist you witness it.”  
He spoke with a passion and sickening pride, like a chef would demand a patron try a dish. Not wishing to hear another word pass through his lips, Orlaith strode forward with Máille unwaveringly matching her step. The Courtiers moved to block their way, Chuilleanáin’s voice again halting them.   
“Ah, ah, ah! Refusing my hospitality is rude, would we not all agree? Perhaps driving a harder bargain would suit you better? I am nothing if not open to… alternatives.”  
Ensuring he had regained Orlaith and Máille’s attention, he waved his hands towards his guards.  
“I propose a duel; your twin, versus… Him…” he motioned towards the guard nearest, who froze on the spot. “Should she win, I will give you a demonstration using him. Should she lose, I will show you the true, artistic value of your twin.”   
Turning towards each other, Máille spoke in a whisper.  
“I can beat him. Even the odds.”  
Unsure why, Orlaith felt a reluctance in agreeing to the plan; nevertheless, it was better than being outnumbered.  
“I will do likewise.”  
Not a believer in luck, they parted with a nod, Máille walking down the steps with the selected Courtier finding his own route. Orlaith followed a short distance behind, not letting the remaining Courtier out of her sight.

Chuilleanáin seemed pleased with the acceptance of his suggestion, clapping his hands together. As Máille stepped onto the floor he raised a finger towards her.  
“My dear, I must request you do away with that weapon on your back. It would be awfully unsporting, you understand. But, of course, I would not be unfair myself; have you another preference instead?”  
The attitude he adopted made her skin crawl; answering his questions and agreeing to his demands only amplified it.   
“A halberd.”  
Chuilleanáin looked at her, confusion filling his jarringly jovial expression.  
“A halberd? You must excuse my lack of expertise, the implements I am versed in are much more precise.” he shifted his focus onto the Courtier near Orlaith. “You, go and see if one of our guests left behind such a thing after their extended stay.”   
The Courtier did as ordered, disguising his distaste. In the interim, Orlaith fielded her own questions.  
“What has happened to you, Chuilleanáin?”  
“Do be more precise, won’t you? Many things, after you thought myself no longer worth acknowledging.”   
“Your form is warped past recognition.”  
“Oh, yes, of course. Mordremoth resided in my head for a time, but I found him quite agreeable. One Nightmare consumed by another, both to my satisfaction.”   
He lowered his voice into a stage whisper.  
“Between you and I, I think he was very impressed with my carving.” his tone returned to its normal, juddering lilt. “I made some into his image. As sculptures, you see; they never lived to see their new perfection. But then he left my mind, and I will admit I felt a little empty for it after a while. The old Nightmare soon returned. Nightmare didn’t forget about me. Such a beautiful thing deserves to be shared, no?”  
The Courtier returned before a response could be made, wielding a halberd twice the size of Máille.   
“To your liking, I hope?”  
Chuilleanáin received no answer in words, though it likely would have been a negative one as she quickly got to work hacking at its haft with her shortsword, more than halving its length.   
“Mmmm,” Chuilleanáin murmured as he watched, stepping back and resting his hands on the corpse. “Make any modification you see fit, but don’t tarry! My schedule will be _very_ busy with one of you.”

The Courtier took up his position opposite her favouring a flanged mace. Máille’s halberd, while originally designed for formation fighting, had now become much more suitable for duelling with its recent shortening. She eyed the other Courtier intently, adjusting to the unique weight of her weapon. Orlaith meanwhile kept her distance from the idle Courtier and waited for an opportunity to remove him from the equation. Chuilleanáin, practically radiating twisted glee, bid them start. Orlaith, never having seen Máille fight evenly, prepared to intervene. Immediately confident and aggressive in strategy the Courtier darted forward in the hopes of getting so close as to make Máille’s weapon unwieldy. For his trouble he dodged a jab into the haft brought up to smash into his side with enough force to emit a resounding crack as it hit the specially hardened bark most Courtiers took as armour. Their back and forth continued for some time, the Courtier trying to get close enough to undermine the advantage of her range only to receive the punishment of the halberd’s flexibility. Eventually, as both began to tire and look for the decisive blow, the Courtier’s mace found purchase. Slipping past her defense he struck hard to her waist, landing with an audible crack that doubled her over with a cough, the padding looking to have done little to soften that particular blow. The tinkling of metal on stone could be heard as a few shattered mail rings fell. Orlaith stepped forward with a hand reaching for her dagger while the other Courtier did likewise out of excitement and thus missed her movement entirely. The mace-wielding Courtier lifted his hand high for a blow to bring down onto the back of Máille’s head only to have one of her boots stomp onto his own foot, followed by her shoving into him with her entire body. His stance was nothing to be proud of before, but the shove destabilized him so greatly that his free hand shot out to balance himself while his mace was momentarily forgotten. His foot being anchored by Máille strove to further undermine him when he tried to move his legs out of instinct, jerking himself back with one leg while the other couldn’t move. When she released him it was into a stumble, one of his legs quickly hooked and yanked by the halberd snuck behind them. He tumbled onto the floor with a grunt, Máille pushing to finish him off by driving the point deep into his throat, up through the skull and thence his brain. 

Máille straightened herself, panting, Orlaith meanwhile drawing a dagger with her left hand and jabbing it into the throat of the distracted Courtier near her. She left him gasping for breath and choking on blood, fingers scrabbling at the hilt, making straight for Chuilleanáin whose black orbs had widened considerably in the past few moments.  
“That, Orlaith, was not part of our deal!”  
“Indeed,” Orlaith said. “Not yours.”   
Chuilleanáin’s face contorted into a snarl, grabbing a knife lying on the block before him. Judging by its stains, it had seen frequent use at some point.   
“You think to cheat me and snuff me out? Not so easily.”   
Máille, still recovering, hadn’t anticipated his rush nor had the time to react to it. Just a hair away from Orlaith making contact he reached her, wrenching her weak defense aside and taking advantage of the small newly-made gap in her armour to plunge the blade deep, wickedly shaped metal slicing through padding and then bark carving a trail to the soft vitals beneath. Her breath caught and Máille stared at the dagger embedded in her with a worryingly vague interest. Forcing her gaze upwards, she found herself staring into the grinning, demented face of Chuilleanáin as he danced away. Boiling blood overrode all other senses and with no thought for herself, she drew her shortsword. Orlaith cut his celebration short, catching him with her thrown second dagger. His laugh at the sensation of pain turned more guttural once she caught up to him, ripping the dagger out with the intent of tearing as much as possible. Grabbing what she could of his scalp, she jarred his head backwards to expose his jaw cleanly; hesitation filled her at the last moment however, remembering Máille’s request. Instead, she held him steady as Máille stalked forwards, hilt still protruding from her torso and fighting pain for consciousness. Chuilleanáin laughed.  
“You can’t kill me, not really. I’ll always be in the Nightmare now, and I’ll haunt you there too!”  
Any further taunts were halted by a shortsword piercing his breast, angled towards the heart. Máille had to lean herself into it for it to slide deep enough, tentatively stepping backwards afterwards with the distinct impression her legs would fail any moment. Orlaith released Chuilleanáin’s corpse, letting his body fall to earth, still smiling. Glancing towards her, Máille resisted the urge of pulling the dagger out.

“I’m… Especially glad now… That I told you I wanted to kill the bastard.”  
The breaths between her words were laboured and the urge to collapse started to overwhelm. Orlaith could see the life spilling out of her like so many leaks in a vessel. Determined to at least speak one more time, Máille unsteadily stumbled towards Orlaith.  
“I’ve heard… A few things about… You. Promise me something?”  
Orlaith caught Máille in her stumbles, gripping her arms to steady her.   
“If I wake up… You better not have… Ruined my stunning looks… Just because you’re jealous.”  
A laugh being strangled in her throat, Orlaith could only make her fall less of a painful one as her legs gave out and consciousness failed at last. Aware of the irony of not only associating with a Courtier, and now saving one as she determined she would not allow herself to fail again, she set her tools down and got to work. 


	4. amenvaFAAAAAAAAAN why is it so hard to come up with names for these now

An out of body experience: Máille had heard crazed whispers describing it and never put much stock in the ramblings of madmen who preferred to weigh hallucinations over reality. Now it would seem she happened upon something approaching the oddity - or had she? When your perception is devoid of touch, of sound, of all sensation save the hazy filter of unfocused eyes the veracity of anything dwells firmly within the realm of doubt. Nonetheless, the image of standing over yourself picking away at a potential mortal wound with tweezers and needles would register as strange regardless of your mental state. Things weren’t helped when the other version of you decided to look you in the eyes, followed by stabbing you with something - that you also didn’t feel - which blew your mind back to oblivion. Had that exchange taken place over a course of seconds, hours, years? There was no frame of reference to inform her. Instead she returned to the familiar vast consciousness of the Nightmare, one candle amongst thousands in a library of inconceivable proportions; one could stalk the immaterial halls for an eternity, only for it to be squeezed back into a span of moments dragged away by resurfacing consciousness. 

Orlaith glanced up, disturbed from the cleansing of her instruments by the distinct feeling of someone nearby doing something incredibly stupid. Certain of the culprit she left the tools to soak in a sterilizing vat, weaving her way through the small cave well-known from her residence of it some years ago despite its now overgrown status. Unsurprised, she caught Máille halfway into attempting to sit up from the stone slab which served as the centre piece to her rustic, to put it mildly, operating ward. In truth it shared more in common with a butcher’s cutting board; more had had their last moments carved out of them on that stone than Orlaith cared to recount. Unaware of this Máille had collapsed back onto her elbows under Orlaith’s withering stare, preparing to speak before being cut off.  
“Laceration and blunt force trauma isolated to the torso, and yet you demonstrate symptoms of brain damage.”  
Máille rolled her eyes, unable to decide if the comment was a joke or an insult from the tone used.   
“Did you really hate my suggestion about taverns that much? Or is living in caves normal for you?”   
Supporting herself on her arms made the ache in Máille’s shoulder blades all the more noticeable, drowned out quickly by the sharp stabs from her waist with every movement.   
“You’re still here, though.”  
“Your powers of perception are remarkable.”  
Orlaith stepped forward, examining Máille from a distance. Her unnatural sight saw far more than the ordinary; the life which sustained Máille was once again caged within her, though it strained against the weak link created by her now cleaned, sealed and bandaged wound, compounded even more by the stresses her awkward position put upon it.   
“Perhaps your head impacted the ground harder than I presumed, however.”

Máille forced herself up properly with a groan, swinging her legs around to touch the cold floor. Orlaith had to respect her will, even if she thought it completely wasted on frivolity. It was through gritted teeth she spoke next.   
“You know what I meant. You could have just as easily left me to die.”  
Betraying nothing in the tilt of her head, the response came quickly and coolly.   
“Indeed. The custom is to be glad I did not, no?”  
Máille grinned weakly, shoulders raising a hair in an unnoticeable shrug. “Don’t think I’m not, but I know you don’t like Courtiers. I’m not one to expect people to do things for kindness’ sake.”  
“We have an agreement, do we not?”  
“We had an agreement. The fact that you never actually agreed to help with my part of the problem didn’t escape my notice.”   
“Consider it professionalism.”  
Máille narrowed her eyes.  
“That’s all there is to it?”  
Orlaith paused before answering.  
“No.”  
“And you’ll make it as difficult as possible to get to the real answer if I ask?”  
Another pause.  
“Yes.”  
“At least you’re honest. I’ll just have to put it down as you thinking the world a worse place without my charming personality,” Máille spoke drily, casting her gaze around the immediate cave for the first time. “So what is this? Holiday home of yours?”  
Orlaith blinked.  
“I have spent time here during the calendar dates of several human festivals, yes.”  
If Orlaith’s response was deadpan the stare she got back from Máille was doubly so.   
“You are quite possibly the worst person to talk to I have ever met, you know that?”  
“Others have voiced similar deductions.”  
Máille’s laugh turned into a cough.   
“Yeah, for some reason I don’t doubt that.”  
Starting to stand she was stopped by Orlaith’s hand shooting out, clamping down on her shoulder with a shockingly tight grip.   
“Are you attempting to undo my work?”  
It was only now Máille noticed the discoloured bark on Orlaith’s exposed arm, the sleeve having been rolled up presumably for the operation. Some of it was faint and recent, stained along the wrist with what had to be Máille’s own blood; what had caught her attention however stood out like a moon in the night sky. A short distance from the shoulder iconography had been seared into the bark, turning it a by contrast startling bone-white. She didn’t recognise it specifically, instead likening it to the kind human pirates had branded, either willingly or by force as prisoners.   
“Not to insult your idea of luxury, but I’m not staying on this rock.”

Orlaith debated whether to argue, but internally agreed that a literal rock solid block of stone wasn’t conducive to the recovery process. Consequently she released Máille and offered her shoulder for her to lean on, helping her gingerly walk towards the more livable section of the cave. Unfortunately, this still gave her plenty of time to talk.  
“First we make a daring escape from a slow and painful death at the hands of Krait, then you rescue me from probable execution by Soundless. Now here you are, nursing me back to health; I could almost see a book being written about us. What’s next? Gift basket?”  
Orlaith meanwhile was largely oblivious to her blathering, mentally elsewhere. Sometime after Máille making a clever comment that included the phrase ‘opposites attract,’ punctuated by a dramatic sigh, Orlaith’s mind came back around in time for a rhetorical complaint.  
“Can’t you do something to make this heal faster?”  
“Yes, but I prefer not to.”  
“What? Alright fine I was just joking-”  
“Your body will heal naturally more cleanly than anything done artificially by magic. It also serves as a good lesson.”  
“Is the lesson to not get stabbed?”  
“There are worse things you could learn from being stabbed.”  
Now on her feet Máille quickly adapted. The wound ran deep and raw, but in truth the pain once resisted was a minor adjustment she quickly overcame. By the time they reached the alcove which Orlaith had once used as a study she was practically walking unassisted, finding a strangely Asuran chair to slip into. Given the many labs the Asura used to operate in land now occupied by Sylvari, the how of its location was likely mundane. Orlaith took her own seat opposite, Máille steepling her fingers and resting her elbows on the worn table between, a flickering candle providing the only light beyond their individual glows.   
“Something about ill-lit caves adds to the atmosphere of plotting, doesn’t it?”  
“What plot would you be referring to?”  
Máille leaned forwards, a steel in her tone at odds with her usually well-spirited attitude.  
“I helped you kill some of your demons. Now we’re going to kill some of mine.”


	5. Drowning Crown

Silence fell over the Court, dozens of eyes darting between an imposing figure shrouded in burnished bark sitting atop his throne and the comparatively diminutive Courtier some distance away, standing alone in the centre of what could only be described as a throne room. Gauging no reaction, his voice, filled with authority, rang out again.  
“The Nightmare has suffered these past years; we are little closer to recovery now as we were then. The Grand Duke asks for unity, not domination. As his envoy I must demand an answer, one way or another.”  
At last the figure stood, descending from the raised podium his throne rested upon. Drawn to his full height his presence was lessened somewhat by his stature, half a head shorter than the envoy. The voice that left his face-obscuring helmet was nonetheless harsh, cruel intent in every syllable.   
“Domination?” he asked, stopping within arms reach. “Of course he does not seek domination. Only the Empress can claim that.”  
The envoy’s expression twisted into one of disgust, likewise colouring his voice.  
“Take care, princeling. What you say is a shade from treason.”   
“Treason?” grating laughter emanated from the helmet. “Your ‘Grand Duke,’ your ‘unity,’ it means nothing to the Empress. You come to a den of lions as a mouse.”  
“The Grand Duke will hear of this, and when he does he will have your head.”  
The armoured Courtier drew a dagger, blade dripping from the poison which soaked its verdant sheathe. Before the envoy could react its jagged edge was plunged deep within his chest, handle used as leverage to push him into the crowd thronging the court’s perimeter.   
“The Grand Duke knows nothing of what will come. Kill him.”  
The sound of his footsteps returning to his throne were drowned out by Courtiers hacking the envoy to pieces, corpse soon unrecognizable. Their zeal did not cease there; he watched closely who participated and who showed reluctance. Punishment severe would follow hesitation. Before he could dwell on that a messenger of his own approached him, stooping low into a maintained bow as he spoke and averting his eyes from the throne.   
“My Duke, several sentry posts have been found vacant. We believe them to be the retinue of…” the messenger tilted his head to look in the direction of the dead envoy, venom in his words. “Him.”  
“Alas, is it not enough for Dreamers to ambush the dearly departed Envoy so brutally? The same fate must befall his guard? A shame. You will have to report as such to the Grand Duke.”  
The messenger stood nodding his obedience. Behind him the few Courtiers who noticed the Duke’s words took that as their cue, turning to race off into the woods in search of more blood.

When they did not immediately encounter the interlopers the pace slowed, the group splitting into roving packs. Their Court did not encompass vast swaths of land but the territory it did hold was winding and easy to get lost in, a mess of passages created by tangled roots and vines beneath a roof of thick canopy rendering advantage being in favour of the hunter or the prey dubious. One such group, made up of six Courtiers, soon found itself utterly distracted from the search.   
“Admit it, worm. The weakness pouring from you nearly makes me nauseous.”  
“Admit what? That I think we shouldn’t make an enemy of the Grand Duke?”  
The first Courtier spat in the direction of the two who were quickly becoming their opposition.   
“A false Duke. The Empress has no need to befriend a pawn and She has no need of scum like you.”  
Hands were suddenly on weapons, blades straining to be drawn from sheathes.   
“You fools will bring all of Nightmare down upon us!”  
“You should have kept your wretched tongue behind its teeth.”  
“What will you do? Run to the Duke and accuse me of thinking clearly?”  
“An enemy to the Duke is an enemy to the Empress; I need only cut you down where you stand.”  
Blades leaving scabbards replaced talking, eyes cast around to gauge who would stand with who when blows came. The seventh Courtier, who hadn’t said a word thus far, was anyone’s guess; she was soon questioned.  
“Do you serve the Empress, or will you die with these mongrels?”  
Not responding at first the Courtier glanced towards the others, unique amongst them in that she carried a rifle. Meeting the eyes of the inquisitive Sylvari an answer came at last.  
“From my perspective, you’re all looking like mongrels.”  
Any confusion at her statement was cut short by raising the barrel of her rifle practically against the earlobe of the Courtier nearest, shards of bark and pseudo-bone splattering those on the other side of where a chunk of his head once was. 

With the crack of Máille’s rifle shot reverberating briefly off the trees before it was swallowed by the leaves and thick air the official signal for pandemonium to begin may as well have been given. Despite the ringing in her ears the sounds of the five Courtiers tearing into each other came clearest, certain to turn on her once whatever their internal strife may be was resolved, presumably with the death of the two resisting. Hoping to even the odds she drew her shortsword, trampling the corpse of the shot Sylvari and wading into their onslaught. Amidst the noise she picked out the quickly moving feet of something behind her; judging from the complete void of nothingness its mind projected it was undoubtedly Orlaith, meaning they had very little time to stay here. Side by side they cut through first the three Courtiers, and then finished what they had started when the remaining two showed no sign of surrendering. Before the last had fallen dead onto the uneven root-riddled ground they were moving again, jogging in the direction Orlaith indicated.   
“I told you to do precisely the opposite of attracting attention.”  
“In my defense, I thought the survivors might be useful. Turns out everyone is a fanatic.”  
Orlaith deemed their distance great enough, slowing her pace. From the amount of patrols swarming they had deduced roughly where their origin lay; the closer they got however the harder it was to find a route that actually bypassed any of them.   
“You estimated far fewer patrols than this.”  
The tone wasn’t accusatory, but then again, when was it ever?  
“Something’s drawn them out. I have no idea what. On the bright side, it means less of them will be in the way when we get to him.”  
“Unless more of your clever ideas lead us to our capture.”  
Máille scowled, unused to being scolded like a child - more importantly, she strongly disliked the sensation.  
“We’d have had to go through them sooner or later. One less patrol means a wider gap.”

Finding any such gap took some time yet, a game of cat and mouse ensuing that was frequently far closer than any of the Courtier patrols realised. With some disquiet it was noticed that the least crazed looked to be the post-Mordrem Courtiers, nearly docile compared to the manic ringleaders, some of whom were clearly stained with drying sap. On one such close occasion they overheard a more slowly-moving patrol, catching the words of a disturbingly snake-sounding Courtier heavily enunciating and drawing out each ‘S.’  
“The Duke wants heads, the Empress wants heads! Find me heads, or I will bring them yours!”  
They couldn’t make out the other side of the conversation, having to instead infer what they could from the frustrated tone.  
“Your place is not to question! The path is clear, and you will follow.”  
The rest was lost in the distance leaving Orlaith and Máille once again alone, though not in silence.   
“Who is this ‘Empress’?”  
“I have an idea,” she began, almost positive of who it was. “But I’m not certain. No time to explain right now.”  
Máille moved to step out from where they were concealed and was quickly pinned in place by Orlaith grabbing her arm. Startlingly, the grip felt as if it was spreading ice into her veins even through padding thick enough to blunt the blow of a club. Orlaith, thoroughly sick of vagaries and lacking information, was evidently looking to make her point as clearly as possible.  
“At the earliest occasion.”  
Máille nodded, quickly released. Now she knew what a warning from Orlaith looked like. Feeling passive warmth return to her limb they swiftly started back down the pursued route, more mindful than ever of what was liable to be around any corner. They could say with confidence they were practically on the Court’s front door, patrols here thinning out considerably. That wasn’t necessarily reassuring; all the more would be in the way of their escape should they be discovered. Before long they found themselves halted off the path, staring at a gatehouse which completely separated the winding tunnel from what could only be assumed to be the Court’s headquarters beyond. Despite the patrols, or perhaps because of them, it remained shut.

Attempting to assault it was pointless; the garrison had to be small due to the size, indeed, but it would be far too likely to rouse the ire of everything within. Máille insisted, and Orlaith agreed, their only chance was to get close enough while remaining undetected, leading her to start a sentence which readily instilled a modicum of dread in Orlaith.  
“I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”  
Giving no visible reaction Máille continued.   
“No Soundless is getting through that gate without raising every alarm imaginable. Not unless I convince them I’m bringing you to their Duke.”  
Nothing met her statement again.  
“Am I meant to take that as agreement-”  
“I am waiting for you to move.”  
“I was expecting a complaint or two.”  
“There are less creative and faster ways to kill me.”  
In other words, Máille noted internally with satisfaction, Orlaith trusted her. At least in this case. She sincerely hoped for both their sakes it wasn’t misplaced. Drawing her shortsword and taking care not to actually jab Orlaith with it, she pushed her ahead and held the blade tip at her back. The walk felt like it stretched on for miles, the fact that at any moment anyone could return and complicate things beyond repair becoming a greater and greater worry. Neither the gate nor the door in the gatehouse opened, the post appearing completely dead. Only when they knocked on the small door set into it did a sign of life make itself known, a panel in the door drawn back. Pale blue orbs peered out from within to scan over the pair. A surprisingly tame and well-mannered voice addressed them.  
“Soundless? This is what the Duke is looking for?”  
“One of the survivors,” Máille’s tone changed into something quite unlike anything Orlaith had heard before. Authoritative and drenched in regality, a stark reminder of her true status. “Yes. Killed most of my patrol. The Duke will want to see her.”  
A brief hesitation before a nod and the panel slid shut. Seconds later the door swung freely open from its internal mechanism, the Courtier stepping aside and letting them through the narrow passage whilst offering a word of advice.  
“You’d better hurry, the lack of results isn’t doing anything for the mood.”  
He almost looked like he was about to continue on with something else, quickly guarding his eyes as he thought better of it. Sealing the door behind them again, the pair continued into the belly of the beast proper. 

What they began walking through seemed so deserted as to make the impersonation of a prisoner escort pointless. The entire camp, primarily quarters and holding cells for prisoners or hounds sprawled out before a slight hill upon which a great waterfall descended, a dirt path mostly clear of roots and protruding branches cutting the camp in half along its journey up to the somewhat monastic in appearance building atop said hill. Hounds left behind in their pens were all they came across, offering them little more than curious looks or growls as they ventured ever onwards. Orlaith quietly informed Máille a significant gathering had assembled on the hill; curiously, the sound of a raging battle grew in intensity. Slowing their pace to a cautious crawl they discovered what looked to be organised brawling, perhaps a hundred spectators watching little more than a dozen Courtiers duel. Any of the dead close enough to retrieve were dragged off and thrown without care into the same cavern the waterfall poured into. They continued along the road before detouring into the nearby foliage ringing the entire camp, Máille making a disdainful remark as they walked.  
“Culling for discipline. A short term solution to your long term problems.”   
Máille turned her gaze to Orlaith, unslinging her rifle.   
“Works to our advantage,” she jutted her head in the direction of a heavily armoured Sylvari presiding over the melee. “That’s who we’re here for.”  
Their current position obstructed them from the view of any on the open ground where the nigh-gladiatorial combat was taking place, a sheet of vines dangling from a branch separating them. While it was perfect for observation the angle made hitting her target extraordinarily difficult to impossible, blocked by the din of the crowds indicating whenever a combatant out of a fatally few remaining would fall.   
“How do you intend we escape, exactly?”  
“Not the way we came in. You stick out like a… Well, Courtier in the Grove. We’ll be taking the same route those bodies are.”  
“Your plan is for both of us to likely drown in a river?”  
“If it helps, I know roughly where it ends. And I wouldn’t call it likely, closer to average. Besides, you’ll be splashing about alongside corpses, doesn’t that kind of thing make you feel at home?”  
Whatever deep regret for her recent life decisions beginning to set in was quashed, knowing the opportunity to renege was long since gone. 

A spell of crawling later they were as close to the Duke as they could without revealing themselves, barrel of Máille’s rifle just edging out of the undergrowth. Between them was nothing more than open ground broken by the waterfall. She didn’t consider herself much of a marksman, preferring to shoot as an opener rather than a finisher. Nevertheless, having put enough years into it she was confident this shot of around a hundred metres - by her rough estimation - fell within her capabilities. Suppressing the torrent of emotions which burnt through her while staring at the Duke, anger strongest amongst them, she steadied herself and laid the barrel on a fist she made with her left hand, her right’s index finger resting on the trigger. Controlling her breathing the comfortably rudimentary iron sights stopped over the Duke’s helmeted head, all else in the world feeling distant to non-existent as her reality contracted into a narrow tunnel. Frantic cheering from the spectators grew and grew as survivors dwindled, coming to a crescendo Máille never heard. Her finger dragged the trigger back till she felt resistance. She exhaled, no wind or significant distance to consider, held it for milliseconds which seemed to stretch into an eternity - until the trigger broke, a round carrying nothing but lethal intent sent for the Duke.

The crowd jeered as another fell, split open by a particularly vicious blow from an axe. As far as they were concerned each was at best weak and at worst a traitor who would fail to fulfill the Empress’ command; the survivor might find redemption if he could drag himself through the bloody haze. Four were left, soon to be three from the looks of the Courtier carrying a warhammer marching menacingly onto another Courtier who had lost their footing. Unable to scramble away the warhammer-wielding Courtier hefted it high, letting it fall with enough weight to cleave through the skull, an abnormally loud crack filling the air eliciting even greater excitement. It took several seconds for the crowd to die down enough for them to notice the Duke had collapsed with a hole rent through his helmet. With no exit wound it took them a few seconds longer to come to the conclusion he had been shot, crowd suddenly dispersing in the face of shouts to locate the source. It wasn’t exactly made hard for them. Bellowing from two Courtiers carrying one of the dead to the river alerted the rest of them, their attention swiftly settled on the Sylvari bolting towards that same river as if their lives depended on it. The two Courtiers dropped the corpse without a care, sprinting in their direction with a fury-enabled haste.

Before getting halfway both knew they would be intercepted. With no time to load another round Máille was relying on wanting to get out of there far more than they wanted to skin her alive. As it turned out Máille and one of the Courtiers tackled each other into a tumble that put her on top, drawing her shortsword and putting a quick end to him. What happened with Orlaith she wasn’t exactly sure; one moment they seemed set for a collision and the next tendrils of green-tinged shadow burst from her, impaling the Courtier. His running corpse travelled a short ways further before impacting the ground and friction forced him to a stop. Having kept her feet she dragged Máille up, stumbling to the edge of the cavern. The waterfall continued downwards for just a few metres, ending in a pool with a visible current dragging it into roaring darkness. She turned her head towards Orlaith.  
“If we survive this, you’re going to be very mad, aren’t you?”  
Not answering she stepped off the edge, slipping into the water below with a splash. Máille glanced towards the Courtier horde practically frothing at the mouth, giving them a two-fingered wave before dropping herself. It was only when she had sunk into the bitterly cold current that she realised how warm the air had been, having to resist gasping and inhaling several mouthfuls of water. To call the speed at which and the directions in which her body was pulled uncomfortable would be an understatement. The few and far between moments where her head broke the surface of the water were filled with spluttering and desperate breaths, and more than once she felt reasonably certain that serious injury was prevented only by a Courtier’s corpse having already gotten trapped in a treacherous spot. As it stood by the time she felt the current slow she was freezing, feeling sick, covered in cuts wherever her armour hadn’t covered and bruises where it had. She resisted just treading water when the open sky was finally above her head, pushing herself towards the nearest bank and dragging herself out. She was soaked from head to toe, yes, but even considering that felt far heavier than usual, the journey having taken its toll. Back on her feet, her next ponderance-turned-worry regarded Orlaith; she should have seen her by now. With squelching footsteps and wringing out what she could as she walked, she began her search. Each floating Courtier corpse she passed that bore vague similarities surprisingly fed a well of dread within herself, subsiding only slightly when she confirmed it stopped at the similarity. 

The river’s pace slowed to a pleasant crawl and Máille eventually spotted Orlaith looking, from a distance, none the worse for wear sitting next to the river on the opposite bank, unbothered by the water still dripping from her clothes. Drawing closer however Máille noticed the typical blaze of colour within her eyes had faded considerably; what would be normal for another Sylvari looked uniquely abnormal for her.   
“Happy to make me walk all the way to the ocean in search of you, is it?”  
Orlaith’s head turned towards Máille as impassively as ever.   
“Your plans are ill-thought out at best. At worst they border on suicidal. I would be happy to encourage the latter mentality were it not for the fact I was wrapped up within your irresponsibility.”  
Máille stood in stunned silence for a few seconds before weariness and giddiness collided in the wake of fading adrenaline, unable to stop herself from laughing.  
“So I was right when I said you’d be mad?”  
Orlaith stood up, turning to walk away.   
“Oh come on, we survived, didn’t we?”  
Orlaith continued walking.  
“You have to admit that was a good shot!”  
Only the growing distance responded, Máille having to yell.  
“You’re not seriously going to make me go through this river again, are you?!”  
With grumbling and a suddenly soured mood Máille threw herself back into the river, having a greatly easier time crossing this far down. Her grumbling turned far darker by the time she was back on dry land jogging to catch up with Orlaith who thankfully slowed her pace, allowing her to do so. Máille presumed herself now as annoyed as Orlaith - at least until she spoke.  
“The shot was… Adequate.”


	6. Rob Halford's Gay Policeman Phase

“To fail the Court I gave you. To fail yourself. These alone deserve punishment. To fail me?”  
The Empress looked down upon the pitiful figure kneeling before her, head bowed in shame, as one might a disappointing child. Raking her vision across the wider chamber she basked in the hundreds of eyes resting on her, hanging on each and every word. To them she posed her next question.  
“What is the reward of failure?”  
The resounding cries of ‘Death! Death!’ spilled across the chamber in a near-incoherent flood. With one raised hand it ceased as soon as it started, as if the Empress had seized their collective lungs directly.   
“How quickly one’s position in life can change,” she mused, tilting her eyes downwards. “Look at me, Domhnaill.”  
The Duke dragged his gaze up to meet hers, tears welling in the corner of his eyes; not of fear, or pain. Regret and shame coiled around his heart, strengthened all the more in the face of his Empress. A significant portion of his left lower jaw and cheek had been sheared off, testament to how close Máille came to ending his life. His voice was weak and laboured, struggling with the new clumsiness of his tattered tongue.   
“N-no suffering ish… too great for me, Empressh.”   
The Empress kneeled down to stare into him more closely, speaking quietly.  
“Poor creature. You have suffered so much already. Perhaps more is, however, in order,” Her eyes flicked onto the crowd. “They would agree.”  
His face was cast downwards again as the first tear flowed before being intercepted by the Empress’ hand, catching his chin so as to avoid the gaping wound in his face.  
“I know you meant no malice. Even the best trained dog makes mistakes, and you will learn from yours.”   
She stood, releasing him. His pupils remained focused on her, exhilarated by her suggestion at possible redemption.   
“You have cost me time,” Her voice was raised again to reach the entire assembly. “You have put everything at risk. You will find those who you let escape - before they tell the Grand Duke anything - and you will ensure their deaths. Falter in this and I will give you to the Grand Duke as a traitor who sought to undermine him, a lone actor I could not abide.”  
Duke Domhnaill felt a new invigoration furnish him, the chance to regain graces consuming his sorrow. The flowing tears became gratefully profuse.  
“Thank you, Empressh, thank you-”  
She lowered her voice once more, enough to keep it from the ears of the onlookers. The Sylvari who stood in her shadow was a different story.  
“And should you succeed… I still long to share power with a worthy Emperor.”  
The assembly watched in a confusion they would never dare voice as their Empress turned, returning to her private quarters with Shadow in tow and leaving Domhnaill in her wake to regain his composure. 

Once inside her quarters all gilding, furs and decadence, she spun to face her Shadow who stared back at her, something off about his posture. She had long since grown used to his warped form and indeed appreciated it at times as a novelty; even those touched by Mordremoth could be bent to her slightest will, subject to her merest whim.   
“Something the matter?” She asked, all sweetness.   
“Domhnaill is a fool, and clumsy. He will do nothing but harm.”  
His voice was coarse, speech delivered as if answering the question of a superior officer. She could only smile, projecting an enchantingly reassuring aura.   
“Are you worried because I mentioned the position of Emperor to him?” She stepped towards him, resting her arms on his shoulders. “Fret not. He is an ugly, disgusting brute. His use will find its end.”

Sylvari society was, no matter how one looked at it, fractured. This had naturally led to the establishment of what could only be described as neutral enclaves. All manner of the lower societal echelons mixed here, meaning nary an eye was batted at the sight of a hushed Courtier and Soundless identical in appearance sitting in the corner of a roadside taphouse in one such sanctuary.  
“I did say I had several outstanding issues I wanted taken care of. That Duke was just the start.”  
“You made no mention of any ‘Empress.’”  
“I wasn’t aware she was involved.”  
Orlaith kept an eye on the locale; even somewhere that practically screamed ‘misfits welcome,’ she greatly disliked being in this close proximity with her own race - especially the outcasts, even if she was one herself.  
“Who is she?”  
Máille, not one to turn down the benefits of readily available beverages, spoke between drinks from a mug made in their typical plant-grown style. Orlaith hadn’t cared to ask what it was.  
“That’s the problem. No one has ever found out.”  
“Exceedingly vague and almost certainly untrue. Try again.”  
Máille raised a hand as she took a gulp as if to ward off the criticism.  
“I’ll put it like this - the Court isn’t one defined entity. Factions within factions, really. You have the blithering idiots who start frothing at the mouth if the possibility of a half-decent torture session presents itself.”

“If I wished to know about the majority I would have asked.”  
With a roll of her eyes Máille continued.  
“Everyone else can be divided up between those who want to follow Nightmare for themselves and those who are happy to argue - diplomatically - about its benefits and downsides all day long. Makes for an entertaining watch sometimes. Less so when they’ve been going at it for the past eight hours.”  
Preventing herself from getting any further off topic she set the mug down, elbows resting on the table and cracking her knuckles.  
“As far as I can tell, the Empress doesn’t belong to any of these groups. Personally I don’t think she is even slightly aligned with any of them, and I’m confident a great deal of internal strife between Courts has had something to do with her,” she shrugged, leaning back against the chair. “Couldn’t ever prove it. A Duchess can’t make baseless accusations if they want to keep their Court long.”  
Orlaith searched her memory for even the slightest mention of someone matching that description, coming up blank.   
“How do you propose we find her?”  
At this Máille faltered, struggling to come up with an answer that would sound less concerning. Failing that, she gave the only one she had.  
“I don’t know. I think it’s more likely she’ll find us first,” traces of hesitation now entered her tone, eyes falling to the table. “I’m sorry to say, but I think I’ve dragged you into something much bigger than I imagined.”   
No words passed between them for some time, Orlaith absorbing the radical shift that had come over what was meant to be a small agreement. Ultimately, she decided, this was typical of her race and just further proved why interacting with them at all was a terrible idea. That being thought…   
“At this point it is unusual for something not to be intent on killing me. An addition to that list makes little difference.”  
Máille, as casually and carefully as she could, looked back towards Orlaith.  
“So you uh, you’re not too upset?”  
For once Máille could positively feel the annoyance burning into her from the deadpan glare.  
“Do not ask such stupid questions. It is unbecoming of you.”


	7. Belgium's Not Real

When Duke Domhnaill returned to his Court his actions came quickly and decisively. Firstly he demanded a physical description of the two Sylvari, and a polite blue-eyed Courtier volunteered it in great detail. When asked how he had come by such specific knowledge he answered truthfully; it was through his gate they had entered. Domhnaill had him quartered, taking extra care so as he remained alive for as much of the process as possible. Save one, the pieces now adorned the various gates - Domhnaill kept the head for himself. The Empress was kind, the Empress was wise. He knew this was now the fault of some fool of a gatekeeper. In Her wisdom he knew She would understand and, once delivered with the other two, embrace him again. Of course this did require finding them, a goal of the utmost importance. Likewise he knew that to truly be redeemed the credit would have to be entirely his, that the disposable worms surrounding him could not be permitted to accomplish this themselves lest they risked usurping his position. Instead he tasked the scouts who routinely showed the least inspiration with concise orders: Discover their location. Confirm their location. Inform him at once. Relying on them not having gone far he would follow close behind, though he would discover - as he made his preparations - not alone. The Empress’ Shadow himself, jealousy coursing through Domhnaill till it turned to thinly-disguised contempt at his sight, was to accompany him. He could never understand why the Empress chose to keep such a wretched abomination at hand, certain he was just a plaything to be cast aside once the amusement his freakish form provided faded. Until then however the Shadow informed him he was to take the role of an observer and, if necessary, step in to ensure things ‘proceeded as planned.’ Domhnaill knew his intent was to upstage him and would dispose of him too, if necessary.

Orlaith and Máille’s pace had slowed on account of a lack of any real direction. Máille hadn’t exaggerated when saying she possessed a list, but she quickly advised caution in pursuing it; having unwittingly walked into a web of the Empress it would be reckless to garner any more attention. Orlaith could only be pleasantly surprised at this reasonableness, concurring. This unfortunately accomplished very little by itself.   
“Waiting does not favour the hunted.”  
“If I had an alternative, believe me, I’d have suggested it. It’ll be a matter of noticing the unusual before it notices us.”  
In the two days since their escape they had moved from the first enclave they came across to another. Both kept a careful watch on the locale, but more luck would be had searching for needles in a haystack.   
“We are surrounded by the unusual.”   
“You notice everyone anyway, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”  
“I perceive nearby life,” Orlaith’s blank stare had a tendency to impart the feeling of having said something stupid to the observer. “Not divine its intent.”  
Máille didn’t let it bother her, rather chipper all things considered. “Yeah, you’re socially hopeless, I know. You’ll just have to hide behind me.”  
“I do not know what you are referring to.”  
It was Máille’s turn to stare at Orlaith incredulously, over the rim of her mug.   
“You told the first person to walk up to you to ‘Leave my presence or I will hasten your terminal idiocy.’”  
Máille’s admittedly impressive impersonation only served to annoy Orlaith more.   
“Should I have pretended to care about anything they had to say?”  
“Well…” Máille considered her response carefully. “That’s largely the purpose of the novel concept of ‘politeness.’ Clearly it remained a novelty to you. And they were only trying to take your order.”  
Orlaith glanced towards the inn’s bar, briefly meeting the eye of the member of the staff from earlier who promptly averted his sight, standing stock-still and staring at the door. Máille was trying and failing to contain a grin by the time she looked back.  
“I do not care. He will now know better in the future.”  
“The fact that you used to live in caves makes more and more sense, Orla.” 

The days had not gone to waste for Domhnaill. At first he felt frustration after frustration with each fruitless hour ticking by. Eventually the report of a scout returned, promising at last. He made a show of receiving it out of the Shadow’s hearing, pleased at the knowledge he possessed over him. As it turned out Courtier and Soundless twins were remarkably unusual, or at least enough to remain in the short-term memories of most they crossed. With that first report their trail had become obvious even if they shared it with no one; the vermin who hid their going-ons in these places desired no trouble and were quick to offer up what they knew in exchange for the guarantee, or vague hope in some cases, that the disfigured Courtier hellbent for blood would leave them be. Domhnaill sent his Courtiers ahead, keeping the Shadow within quick reach at all times. The Duke aroused too much suspicion, even before that cretin of a Courtier had shattered his appearance. His waiting was filled with a longing for their next meeting, slavering over the fantasies of crushing the life from her, carving her face as she had his. And then, when his personal satisfaction had been eked out, his Empress would finally recognise him as a Duke above all others. _His_ Empress, he repeated to himself, the concept electrifying him all the more.

A steady flow of all sorts continued as the evening came to its close. Dreamers, Soundless and Courtiers, all tolerating each other and all worryingly indistinguishable. Máille would like to think she would know a spy when she saw one - nonetheless her hand rarely strayed from the sheathed shortsword resting by her side. To Orlaith’s dismay this division of concentration did little to stem the flow of her questions.  
“So why’ve I not seen you with an entourage of corpses yet?”  
Orlaith, resigned to her fate, had decided it was at this point better to just answer the questions. “Elaborate.”  
“Necromancy, undead. Part of the territory, no?”  
“Raising the dead had little, if any, relevance to my research. I never honed the practice.”  
Máille appeared to pay minimal attention to Orlaith, eyes casually drifting over the room at large while four of her right-hand fingers absentmindedly drummed the table, one after the other in a maintained rhythm.  
“What was your research anyway?”  
Orlaith considered for a moment how much of that question she wished to answer, and how succinctly.   
“The longevity of life in both the short and long term.”  
Máille suddenly found herself staring at Orlaith, cogs in her head turning.  
“How long term do you mean, precisely?”  
“Far past the ordinary lifespan of a human.”  
“You’ve poured years into trying to figure out how to live longer?”  
“Yes. Certain methods already exist. I consider them far too cognitively damaging.”  
Máille couldn’t stop herself from asking, curiosity overwhelming her.  
“So… Did you get anywhere with it?”  
“Perhaps,” Orlaith let the non-answer stand for a second. “No Sylvari is yet to die from old age. Whether we do at all is uncertain - my conclusions will be tested then. And, if we do not, then the years I invested into any hypotheses will be inconsequential.”  
Máille shrugged in agreement, feeling no need to pry into the grisly specifics that likely would mean nothing to her anyway. 

Orlaith’s light sleep was broken by the sound of something lumbering towards her. Said something shaking her dispelled the grogginess, simultaneously pushing it away and reaching for a dagger before her mind registered the would-be aggressor as Máille. It was her voice that came next.  
“... Or we’re dead. Come on, bright eyes, don’t make me slap you.”  
Orlaith grabbing Máille’s wrist and holding it in place made it apparent how bad of an idea attempting such a thing would be. Using it as leverage she stood, the thought, of all things, of how much she had missed an actual bed crossing her mind. She couldn’t figure the time precisely, only certain that it was the dead of night and Máille had stormed in from her turn on watch, rifle in free hand.  
“Overheard a Courtier asking about us. Almost certain he recognised me.”  
“Then we leave, now.”  
Máille nodded wordlessly, turning for the door. Orlaith slipped her satchel of implements over her shoulder, returning her daggers to their sheathes as she followed. It was a short walk to the building’s door, the only staff member nearby raising his eyebrows as they passed but saying nothing. The pale moon cast little light on the chilled air outside, surrounding darkness looking as if it sought to devour all it could. Even the natural bioluminescence swiftly faded, making the eight sets of orbs resting in the sockets of figures so melded with the darkness it was near-impossible to distinguish them all the more striking. Showing no hesitation Máille stepped towards the semi-circle they formed, grip loose on her rifle resting at hip-height.   
“Your issue is with me. Not anyone else here.”  
No response came save the collective drawing of blades and sixteen shuffling feet. Máille’s rifle roared and a set of eyes stumbled backwards. Another found the blade of a dagger lodged in its torso, thrown by Orlaith. A gap in their formation opened, opportunity seized as both ran for it in step. The eight pursuers turned to follow at a slightly slower pace, two of them noticeably struggling with their new wounds.   
“If you hadn’t gone and stabbed one, they might have actually let you go!”  
“You have no chance alone.”  
“You’re right, it’s so much better to die together,” Máille said through gritted teeth, lacking the steadiness to reload. “I hadn’t figured you for such a hopeless romantic.”  
Máille truthfully was glad that she hadn’t been hung out to dry in the back of her mind, considering the moment however entirely inopportune to express such a feeling. 

Orlaith took the lead, not that it made much difference. The direction they ran may as well have been random and they more often than not had to guide themselves by what they could guess they were standing on and walking into. All around them Orlaith’s more preternatural sense was entirely drowned out by nocturnal life, now joining the ongoing cycle of predator and prey. Sound had to be relied upon, which is why the noise of something large and heavy stomping towards her from the left caused her to dart forwards, hoping to avoid it. When she looked back Máille was missing and the forest had become eerily quiet. The usual denizens hadn’t left - they merely stopped moving, an omen that bode ill to her. This provided an opportunity; with time and an expenditure of focus she picked out a writhing coalescence of energy which she hoped belonged to Máille and whatever had found her. Drawing closer to it the sounds of a struggle became apparent; not a clashing of blows, but a far more muted scuffle to the tune of heavy breathing nearly feral, shuddering in and out of a mouth which never closed. Before long Orlaith just barely picked out what had to be Máille, quickly losing her ground against a considerably bulkier Courtier which donned a suit of armour she was certain she had seen collapse from a bullet to the head just the other day. Noticing her he went for a quick finish to things, lunging forward head-first and catching Máille’s own with his temple, followed up by a grab for her throat. Physically outmatched there was little Máille could do to resist, trying to just loosen his grip as she was repositioned as a meatshield. Orlaith couldn’t tell if Máille was trying to communicate ‘help me,’ ‘kill him’ or just choking to death. His leering expression was made all the worse by the shattered face it rested upon.  
“One more step, and she diesh.” 

Their standstill persisted for a few moments, Máille wrenching his grip just loose enough to speak.   
“Just kill the ba-”  
“What,” Máille was silenced, determination fading. “Will it be, Soundlessh?”  
Orlaith had no intention of surrendering, nor did she want Máille to die. Playing for time she closely watched for an opportunity in every movement.  
“Fine. What are your terms?”  
The Duke’s ruined face twisted into a grin, easing his grip on Máille’s throat just enough for complete disbelief to replace her more existential emotions. Almost too quietly to hear, she muttered.  
“There’ll be no living with her after this.”  
“You won’t have to worry about living for long.”  
“Great. Trapped between two completely humourless-”  
The hand moved to clamp over her mouth. Another figure seemed to almost materialize beside the Duke, hands behind his back akin to a statesman; his resemblance to Chuilleanáin was more than a little uncanny. The change in the Duke’s posture was instant, defensive towards the Empress’ Shadow.   
“Keep your distancesh. I found them, they belong to me.”   
“Evidently. Was killing your own necessary?”  
“My own?” spittle flew from the Duke’s mouth, likely a mixture of intentional and otherwise. “In my way. Nothing but in my way. Are you in my way?”  
The Shadow cocked his head, rolling the question around in the part of his mind left coherent from Mordremoth.   
“Certainly.”  
The Duke started to grin in satisfaction before it faltered, suddenly confused. The Shadow’s closest hand snaking out from behind his back to lodge Orlaith’s previously thrown dagger into a gap in the armour caught him unawares, maw falling silent as his breath caught. Máille sprung into action, biting a finger down to the bone. The Duke instinctively tried to pull his arm away, leg hooked by a whirling Máille. She followed him down as he collapsed, grabbing the first handhold she could find - the remaining half of his lower jaw - which tore in a sickening coiling and shredding of tendons. Orlaith passed her remaining dagger over, Máille thrusting it up through the roof of his mouth, blade shearing into brain as life left him with a spasm and growling gurgle. 

The Shadow remained still, watching with mild interest. He allowed them to stand unopposed and spoke only when he was certain they were listening, albeit warily.  
“Duke Dubhthaigh is next. He doesn’t know and he won’t believe you.”  
Máille massaged her throat, trying to work the burning out and speaking between coughs.  
“Aren’t you meant to be on their side?”  
“I don’t know.”  
Before Máille could get thoroughly fed up with that, Orlaith tried her own hand.  
“Why did you help us?”  
He let the question steep for some time, nearly visible in his thinking at times. Eventually he settled on something.  
“I think I was supposed to.”  
He left as soon as he appeared in much the same manner, leaving the two to regain their bearings.   
“What made you hesitate?”  
Orlaith’s head tilted, just slightly. “I expected you to do something stupid.”  
For once no hint of amusement sparked in Máille.  
“Don’t take that chance again. Death is far preferable to being their prisoner.”  
“I am aware.”  
Máille expected the pragmatist in her to be, dropping it and instead falling back to their unexpected assistance.   
“What do you say? Think we should go along with what he said?”  
“Do you have an alternative?”  
“No,” Máille begrudgingly admitted. “No I don’t.”  
Standing up straight she searched for her fallen weapons.  
“I really hate people who can just appear and disappear at will. They never stay to answer any questions.”


	8. A Lemon Nation

“What do you mean,” cold rage simmered behind the deceptively charming mask of the Empress. “He failed?”  
The Shadow stood much as he had hours before, hands behind his back and answering all questions with an air of absolute calm.  
“As I said - as you predicted - though not without a measure of success.”  
Had She human hands, the fingers would have long since turned pale from how tightly they gripped the back of the chair before Her.   
“I suggest you explain, quickly, before you upset my composure further.”  
Her Shadow was a polar opposite to the enraged inferno enveloping Her. Expectations had not been set high for the Duke; he was worth little more than occasional amusement, provided he spoke as little as possible. A display of incompetence on this scale however filled Her with a malice only compounded by the fact that it could not be exacted on the one responsible.   
“They appear to have been acting entirely on their own, and unaware of your plans. The wrong place at the wrong time,” he bowed his head. “If you will.”  
“You think I should simply…” Her eyes narrowed, the tempest within threatening to enter Her voice. “Let them be?”  
“No, Empress. I am only suggesting they may not be the threat you worry they are.”  
“I don’t worry them to be a threat, dear,” the word spoken with a warning that it was subject to change. “Because they are little more than meddlers prodding at a hand which does not yet care to crush them.”   
The Shadow stepped forward, taking a hand in his. Her expression softened for a moment.   
“Of course, Empress. So why be concerned?”  
The maelstrom returned, jerking her hand back as if being mauled.  
“Their defiance will _not_ go unpunished. They think to interfere in my affairs and simply go on their way? No. They will serve me, or they will beg for death.”  
“As you wish.”  
Thoughts weaved and spun quickly in Her mind, considerations being weighed determined too important to waste on the increasingly feeble surrounding minds.   
“It pains me, deigning to suffer him, but I believe a meeting with that Grand Duke is in order. I will play along with him, for now. In the meantime - return only when you have news of Dubhthaigh.”  
The Shadow muted his crowded psyche, unsure of what he thought was a contradiction.  
“Has another not already been assigned to that, Empress?”  
“They have, my Shadow.”  
The Empress smiled, so enchanting it was nearly infectious.   
“Surely then there is no need-”  
“You think I wish to look upon you for a moment longer? Do not presume I will forget your own failing so quickly. You may see me again when you are worthy of my attention.”  
“I-” dejection filled him, sudden and overpowering. “Understand.”   
As he turned to leave each step felt like a deeper slip into the throes of withdrawal, his soul thrashing for a want he had until now been unaware of. The Empress meanwhile felt a degree of satisfaction; she could not punish the Duke, and so a substitute had been found. In that same vein, a new Duke would have to fulfill the other gaps. 

“I said, briefly, he seemed, _possibly_ , familiar. I can’t tell you why and the more you ask the less likely I’ll remember.”  
“Are you deficient? Do you suffer from frequent memory loss?”  
“Lately I wish I did.”   
Their antagonistic back-and-forth had continued off and on for the past few hours, their only distraction on an otherwise boring and ever-stretching road through the more obscure Brisban fringes. To call it a road even gave it too much credit; at one point something to that effect had been laid down likely by the Asura, then covered and overgrown. Were it not for how thin the layer of soil was trees would have long since sprouted and hidden the path completely.   
“Can you make yourself useful in any capacity?”  
“Are you saying that you don’t enjoy our talks?”  
“Tell me of the Duke, if you can at least manage that bare minimum.”  
Máille, all things considered, was enjoying herself. A pleasant walk, a goal to strive for and plenty of time to passively frustrate the decidedly less-pleased Orlaith.  
“Which one?”  
It briefly occurred to Máille that Orlaith might become filled with the irrepressible urge to strangle her, and her throat was by no means recovered from the recent bout. The risk, she figured, was worth it for the side-long death stare she received.  
“Answer the question.”  
“Truth be told,” she shrugged, the weight of the rifle slung across her back reassuring. “We’ve never met. That being said, if I was a conniving megalomaniac - and I’m not - I’d understand why you’d want to get rid of him.”  
“How so?”  
“Dubhthaigh’s not exactly well liked, but he makes up for it by being well respected. He’s known to voice his complaints about wider Court politics quite publicly. He’s also known to have never broken his word - and be quite susceptible to reason.”  
“Courtiers looking to kill one of their few sources of logic. How mundane.”  
Máille could only shake her head, amusement forcing a twinge at the corners of her lips.  
“You’re very set in your ways about the Court.”  
“Experience has informed my stance.”  
“Careful now, you absorb too much of that and it might teach you something opposing.”  
A tilt of the head prefaced Orlaith’s reply. “You imply I am unwilling to alter my opinions?”  
“How many of your opinions apply to me?”  
“More than you would like.”  
“In regards to Courtiers.”  
A barely noticeable delay.  
“The exception does not make the rule.”  
“I’m less exceptional than you think.”

The Court of Duke Dubhthaigh did not hide itself and was thus easy to find. Orlaith had come to expect by now that they would have to disguise, talk or otherwise sneak themselves in - instead, Máille casually strode up to the first pair of Courtiers she found once in the general area his Court was rumoured to be situated within, their attention quickly drawn by the impossible-to-mistake Soundless aura beside her.   
“Might this be the territory of Duke Dubhthaigh?”   
“That would be correct,” one affirmed, halting the conversation with his fellow. “You’ll find entrance proper back thataway.”  
He jerked a thumb in the direction behind his shoulder, indicating a break in the otherwise perpetually encroaching trees. Upon closer inspection said break was very clearly maintained by unnatural means, and judging from the set-aside tools near these Courtiers precisely what they were doing.   
“Is the Duke in?”  
The previous Courtier looked to his fellow in askance.   
“As far as I’m aware. He was a few hours ago, at any rate.”  
“I wouldn’t wish to be impolite; is he receptive to guests at the moment?”  
“You’ll have to ask whoever is at the gate.”  
Máille nodded her thanks, both continuing past the Courtiers who quickly resumed their discussion in earnest. Once out of earshot Máille mused.  
“Not a bad start. Seemed nice.”  
“Seeming ‘nice’ is an easy way to lure the foolish into a false sense of security.”  
“If you were the one who wanted to do the talking we’d never get anywhere.”  
The trees which grew along the path were quite dissimilar to the typical Nightmare fashion; healthy and vibrant, a pleasant mixture of browns and verdance. The wall the gate ahead was set in did have its fair share of thorns, however it seemed a choice made out of practicality rather than any manifestation of cruelty. The guards at the gate were similarly helpful; they confirmed the Duke to be present, asked who sought an audience, to which Máille replied ‘a Duchess,’ and then granted them entry with directions. They didn’t even seem perturbed by the accompanying presence of a Soundless. Whatever Orlaith was thinking she kept to herself, likely for the best, silently observing the going-ons of a Courtier settlement the likes of which she had never seen. 

A far cry from the habitual torment she had come to expect, the people here actually resembled a functional society. Nightmare influence was obvious, naturally, architecture frequently taking on darker hues and the odd passing Fern Hound clearly having undergone some form of transformation to reflect its alignment. The difference was both stark and subtle; Nightmare was present in all things, but it was unconsuming. It held no ravenous grip on its subjects here, scorn-filled eyes didn’t scrutinise their passing. To put it bluntly Orlaith felt as if she was walking in another dimension. She struggled to pay attention to Máille’s advice as they walked into the evening, summarising it as a lot of ‘let me do the talking’ and ‘complain after if you have to.’ By the time they reached the Duke’s Quarter, as it was locally known, they had stumbled into what looked to be a feast. Certainly symbolic, and hopefully indicative of a goodly mood, Máille caught the attention of a nearby attendant to request an audience with the Duke himself. He replied he could introduce them, but she would be better served by joining the current festivities and waiting with the other guests. Shelving her questions, an agreement, a few short steps and a whispered word or two into the ear of the Sylvari at the head of the table later the pair found themselves standing in front of the excused Duke. Tall and projecting an air of kindly nobility, he recognised Máille’s polite short bow with a nod, glancing towards Orlaith. Something flickered in his eyes briefly - offense, perhaps? - before it was replaced by dawning realisation. With another nod now towards her he spoke, a voice refined and distinctively quiet, yet wielded with an authority which cut through the background discussions filling the air.   
“Mm? Ah, Soundless, understandable, if not perplexing as to what brings you here.”   
He returned his attention to Máille.  
“Please, to whom do I have the pleasure?”  
“A Duchess in exile, and…” Máille’s voice once again regained that startling difference which echoed her true heritage, quickly trying to choose a word which wouldn’t cause Orlaith to complain, wheedle or otherwise damage her later. “A friend who has, through a series of unlikely events, become involved.”  
The Duke looked between the pair, having a similar, albeit well disguised, reaction that most did upon hearing they weren’t twins.   
“Exile? Should I presume that to mean…”  
He did not finish his sentence, the ending seemingly being a usual enough topic amongst Courtiers to make it unnecessary. Máille nodded.  
“My condolences. I must apologise if your coming here is of urgency, however. It would be unfair to prioritise you over the ambassadors we received some hours ago.”   
The Duke looked towards a section of the great table which seated three Courtiers of the much more traditional, by Orlaith’s standards, kind. They followed his gaze, making note of their position and practically hearing the Shadow’s words mentally echoing.   
“You will have to wait and make your case alongside them. In the meantime, you are more than welcome to join us.”  
“That will do just fine. My thanks.” 

The Duke gestured towards the table, dismissing them and returning to his own place. Open spaces were a ways down the table, giving them time to share quick and quiet words.  
“They won’t do anything publicly. It might also be a coincidence.”  
“Unlikely.”   
“Agreed. We’ll just have to keep an eye on them.”  
Their seats put them on the opposite side and roughly six spaces down from the three who were busily embroiled in telling what looked to be a thoroughly engrossing tale, going by the frequent and exaggerated gestures. Finding themselves sandwiched between other Courtiers Máille was soon in her element, graciously accepting the offered pleasantries on their behalf and availing herself of the impressively varied spread. Orlaith discreetly watched the three and after a short while was certain one had glanced their way, something positively murderous gleaming in their eye. Her vigil was quickly broken by the Courtier to her left attempting to engage her in a near comatose inducing activity; small talk.   
“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice your arrival. More ambassadors?”   
“Of a sort.”  
“Aha,” she caught her grinning out of the corner of her eye. “Where from? And is it too much to ask what for?”  
Orlaith turned her head, staring directly into her eyes with the highest concentration of pure disinterest in having any kind of a conversation she could muster burning forth.   
“It is not your concern. Refer to my previous answer.”  
The Courtier could only chuckle heartily, drowning it in a glass of some presumably imported and decadently valuable liquid.   
“Soundless, Soundless. I’ve always admired your kind.”  
“I do not care.”  
“Certainly, which makes you such a refreshing change of pace. Far better to speak plainly.”  
“I am glad you find me such an oddity.”  
She almost wished they were the more savage variety of Courtier. It was off-putting enough to not only be surrounded by them, but to have them attempt to make pleasant conversation? She never thought she would come to miss the days of simple degenerate humans skulking in taverns.  
“What is it you do, Soundless?”  
Her responses came short and monotone, always with that particular brand of unblinking stare she reserved for people she willed to stop talking.  
“I cut people open in the hopes they stop screaming about the varying degrees of their consequential stupidity.”   
The Courtier’s eyes lit up at this; Orlaith took that as a bad sign.  
“A surgeon - a Soundless after my own heart!”  
This gave Orlaith pause.  
“I presume you to be the local interrogator, then.”   
The Courtier laughed.  
“Through-and-through torturer if you ask some of the whinier ones to come through my ward. I swear, some of them could be mistaken for newly-grown.”   
Orlaith blinked. A surgeon who held a disdain for those under the scalpel who only made her job harder. This, she concluded, could be worked with. Máille, not failing to have noticed this, let the approximately ten percent of her brain she dedicated to her own uninteresting conversations function with little oversight. The remaining ninety got to work on coming up with clever ways to mock Orlaith for fraternising with the enemy later. 


	9. Lost in Necropolis

Máille was unable to stop herself from listening intently to Orlaith’s conversation-often-turned-debate, finer details frequently going over her head or turning her stomach - both, once in a while. As the night deepened however Courtiers filtered out of the hall, leaving the Duke, a few sentries and the two parties. He informed them in the guise of a polite request that whatever their issues may be they were to be postponed until morn, and added an invitation for them to make use of the nearby guest chambers. A nearby Guard was relegated as their escort, taking the lead as a sudden unnoticed tension permeated the air and the urge to draw weapons was resisted with monumental effort. Instead they followed and tried their respective bests to not look like they were warily eyeing each other. Thankfully, without requiring any prompt, the Guard showed them to two separate buildings in the Duke’s Quarter on opposite sides of a street and quickly left them to their own devices. It seemed, however, for the moment no instigator was willing to step forth; they retreated to the chambers’ interiors, unspoken stand-off ended. Máille took Orlaith aside the very second the door closed.  
“Keep an eye on them. They aren’t getting within twenty metres of that Duke without us being there.”  
Orlaith nodded, though not before she cast her eyes around their lodgings. All things considered, Nightmare hospitality wasn’t far behind the human standard. In place of cloths and the like were weaved vines and what seemed like cleverly durable moss, furniture looking as if it had been twisted, or grown, into shape.   
“I’ll swap you in a few hours. Come find me if I don’t.”   
Settling into a chair beside a draped window she resigned herself to what was appearing to become a habit, left in the light of her own glow as Máille’s heavy footsteps receded with the occasional clatter as a weapon or piece of armour was haphazardly tossed aside. An eye remained fixed on the Courtiers across the way while her mind, rather than slipping into its usual meditative near-trance, raced with new challenges to her conception of the Court. Back and forth she argued with herself, each proposition tempered in logic and self-defeating caution, so much so that her vigil was finally broken by a stinging sensation in her ear. Twisting her head as if a jolt of electricity had run through her she caught sight of Máille’s hand darting backwards, saved by a speed only granted through the fear of having it bitten off.   
“What happened?”  
Orlaith now remembered her request and had a notion of time return to her, noticing the barest hints of sunlight around the edges of the curtain. 

“They have remained as they were.” she evasively replied.  
“I’ll take that as a good sign,” Máille got to recovering her discarded gear, tentatively fielding a question steeped in a suspicious amount of forced innocence. “So, what are your thoughts?”  
“That it is too early for you to be pestering me.”  
“Are you sure it isn’t you’re just talked out for the year?”  
Máille could suddenly feel a pair of eyes trying their best to burn a hole in her back.  
“You mistake my lack of interest in talking to you for an aversion to talking.”  
“Ah,” the response was momentarily muffled as she pulled her chain shirt over her head. “Found a new favourite Courtier, have you?”  
Orlaith turned her head back in the direction of the three Courtiers.  
“That would imply I had one in the first place.”  
“I’m not hearing a denial.”   
“Academic interest transcends petty politics, even if you do not.”  
Máille felt Orlaith had been annoyed enough for the hour, leaving her in peace not soon to last as proven by the sound of approaching footsteps. Máille instinctively began to draw her shortsword, halting at a glance from the unmoved Orlaith, a series of knocks made on the door.   
“The Duke has found time for your earliest convenience.”   
The voice, subdued through the door, boasted a pedigree of a professional soldier, regulated footsteps making their way across to the other quarters.   
“‘Earliest convenience,’” Máille quietly explained. “Is the nice way of saying ‘now.’ Let’s see what they have to say first.”  
“You still have not told me what you intend to tell the Duke.”  
“If I even get a chance to speak? Not the truth, obviously. Being officially a Duchess in exile, I can ask him to grant temporary asylum. He’ll be obligated to accept - and it will keep us close to him.”  
Orlaith hoped Máille was as correct as the confidence she exuded suggested, once again following her into another maw gaping uncertainty. 

The Guard led them back to where they had been the night prior, passing a few Courtiers on the way just departing. It seemed Duke Dubhthaigh had an early start to his day indeed, the hall having long since been returned to its purpose as an auditorium and the banquet table removed. Composure was maintained far more easily this time, though a peculiar feeling which would cause the hair on the back of a human’s neck to rise crept up on them; the feeling of being watched. The three Courtiers showed no sign of it bothering them and so neither did they, filing into the Duke’s Hall and quite accidentally taking up opposing positions.   
“In respect to order of arrival,” the Duke’s hand waved in the direction of the three. “I will hear you first.”  
“Our appreciation,” one stepped forward, bowing her head briefly. “And the extended appreciation of Duke Domhnaill, of on whom’s behalf we are here.”  
The feeling of being observed dissipated. Dubhthaigh nodded along to their words, bidding them to continue with his silence.  
“The purpose of our being here is, I must admit, something of a sensitive nature. I would like to think the discretion of all present - including you,” she turned her head towards Máille and Orlaith with a downright cheerful expression. “Can be relied upon?”  
Dubhthaigh scoured the room with his gaze, including the two Guards on either side of the door.   
“I hear nothing to the contrary. Continue.”  
“We would like to discuss the Grand Duke-”  
A raised hand stopped them in their tracks.  
“I warn you now: If you are here to slander the Grand Duke I will hear none of it.”  
“Slander? Not at all. We are, all of us, more grateful than words can express for his exemplary role in maintaining the Court through its recent… tribulations.”  
A collective breath was held as all present knew some sort of a ‘but’ was sure to rear its head.  
“However, we think to do more than simply persist that a new direction may be,” she glanced around the room, making a show of considering her next word carefully. “Beneficial.”  
“To be blunt, perhaps verging on crude,” Dubhthaigh froze her to the spot with his tone. “I see no reason to support Domhnaill in donning a pair of boots, let alone the position of Grand Duke.”   
It took all of Máille’s courtly decorem to stifle a snicker, clearing her throat while her arm covered her mouth instead. This did not fail to be noticed by the speaking Courtier, whose mask slipped for half a second.  
“Out of respect, Duke, I won’t answer to that. You mistake our intent. We would suggest you take up the mantle.”

Universal dead silence met the statement. What broke it was a Courtier entering the hall - Duke’s Guard judging from his armour - drawing the eyes of the entire room.   
“My Duke, a disturbance outside the Quarter has arisen. Resolving it will take just a moment if I can borrow these two.”  
He motioned towards the Guards posted to the door, they in turn looking at what must have been their superior in confusion.   
“Should I see to it personally?”  
“Not at all, the additional support will suffice.”  
A nod later the Captain left with the extra Guards in tow, Dubhthaigh looking back at the delegation. Eventually he mustered his thoughts.  
“You say this with the support of your Duke?”  
“Most assuredly.”  
“He has never hidden his… Shall we say, animosity, towards me. What changed his mind?”  
“I cannot claim to know his mind, Duke, but I hope I would not be out of place in suggesting the wisdom which comes with time.”  
One of the Courtiers withdrew a small container from a pouch, extending it towards their speaker.  
“In fact we have come with our Duke’s symbol, as a pledge.”  
Taking hold of the box like it was a priceless artifact she stepped forward, alarm bells screaming as the distance between them closed. Without saying a word to each other Orlaith and Máille knew that Courtier couldn’t get within stabbing distance of the Duke. Before either could even finish stepping forward and speaking the two remaining Courtiers sprung into action, rushing towards them. The third Courtier dropped the box and started her own charge, confusion slowing the Duke’s reaction.   
“I’ll deal with them!” Máille’s voice joined the ringing of her blade leaving its sheathe. “Keep the Duke alive.”

Orlaith broke into a short-lived sprint interrupted by one of the Courtiers not taking Máille’s bait, splitting off to intercept her. Unfortunately for her he was a beast of a Sylvari; taller, larger and - from the force at which he slammed into her - insurmountably stronger. A blindingly white flash exploded in her head as her skull cracked into the hall’s wall she found herself now pinned against, vision slowly resolving into a nondescript blur. Instinctively her hands darted forwards, lashing out blindly at the Courtier and finding no purchase. A sudden intense searing scorching into her collarbone forced the world back into focus with a blink, the Courtier turning out to be some form of an elementalist as the hand holding her in place flickered with flame, the other reaching for a blade with which to skewer her. Unable to concern herself with Máille or the Duke anymore she struggled to get free, merely clenching her jaw at a pain searing beneath her flesh that would have caused others to scream by now. A knee to his groin accomplished little more than harming herself, smashing into armour. More focused now she reached for his face, splaying her hands so that the sharp tips of her index fingers went for his eyes, thumbs looking to pry his mouth open. He screwed his eyes shut and opened his mouth, aiming to bite down on her thumbs and very likely tear them off; he realised his mistake when instead of contacting with soft bark-flesh his teeth felt like they had become trapped in what could only be described as a dense treacle-like substance. Unable to open his eyes for fear of losing them or pry his jaw apart again, he was completely oblivious to the shadowy tendrils which had travelled down Orlaith’s arms, seeping from her thumbs through his mouth. His throat became filled with a writhing sludge, choking him even as it burrowed deeper before uniformly expanding outwards, internals exploding as necrotic energy shredded them like wet tissue. Pushing his now literal dead weight off she finally got an idea of how the others were faring, spotting Máille just in time for her to take an aggressive step forward through her Courtier’s guard, landing a fist to his jaw followed up by a maiming slash to the chest. The Duke, meanwhile, was in what could be described as a reverse to Máille’s status.

He was clearly a seasoned fighter, having swiftly organised himself and even landing the occasional, although superficial, blow. The issue was his attacker moved like mercury, short blades singing through the air and dance-like stance certainly augmented by something unnatural. A single cut was minor but they quickly added up and the sudden flagging strength he felt, combined by the tingling, had to mean poison was at work. Orlaith took advantage of the unsuspecting Courtier, picking the moment to grab her. Even then, her goal had been the throat and instead she got an arm, nearly wrenching the thing out of the socket with how much momentum she countered by dragging it back. The Courtier’s yelp of surprise turned to a gasp as a chill so intense ran up her arm it felt like it was on fire when mixed with the room temperature, Orlaith’s free hand reaching for her dagger before she could get away again. Entirely to her surprise her hand brushed empty air where the hilt should have been, glancing down to find the sheathe vacant. Before she could devise an alternative the Duke stepped forward hacking into the Courtier from the shoulder, blade brought down again and again like a cleaver as it carved deeper with each cut. Orlaith took a second to look over him, noting how unsteady he appeared, intact in every other respect. Putting him aside for the time being she turned and took half a step towards Máille before seeing her own situation was well in hand, a very surprised Courtier staring down at the blade protruding from his stomach before he was shouldered off of it, landing face-first onto the hard floor, honey-coloured blood leaking to pool outwards from his wound. Orlaith’s next priority was locating her missing dagger; its whereabouts were made clear when the sound of breath being caught in a way that indicated a great deal of it had been forced out of a person at once emanated from the Duke behind. Turning on the spot she witnessed the Shadow taking a step back, looking at his hand and turning it over with a mild interest akin to how one might examine a replacement prosthetic. Before vanishing as he had before he met Orlaith’s eye, lips moving yet tongue producing words which seemed like they belonged to someone else entirely.  
“I’m sorry. I had to. For Her.”

The Duke tilted forwards, stumbling and then outright collapsing, eyes frozen in his head. Regardless of Orlaith’s feelings towards him the professional within her screamed at the idea of such a severe impact with the ground, catching him. It was at that moment the Duke’s Guard rushed in.  
“Duke, we heard-”  
Time slowed with their pace, eventually stopping as they did. The sight of the three dead Courtiers and Orlaith’s dagger embedded in their Duke was too much. The Captain’s voice rose to a bellow.  
“Drop your weapons. Step away from the Duke or neither of you will live to see his next breath.”  
Máille’s grip tightened at first, internally grappling with potential realities she wished were anything but impossible. With a sigh she bent down, laying her shortsword onto the ground. A Guard stepped forward at once and pushed the weapon away with a foot that was then turned on her, kicking the back of her kneecaps and forcing her to a kneel.   
“Could have just asked-”  
“Shut,” the Captain’s own drawn blade very quickly found its way in front of her face. “Your mouth. Fetch the surgeon.”  
The untasked Guard departed at a breakneck pace, Captain moving to put himself between the Duke and now backing away Orlaith.   
“Manufactured that distraction to get this chance, did you? Will it be worth it when the Duke reminds you of the barbaric side of Nightmare?”  
He struggled against his impulses to run her through there and then, daring her to speak.  
“A vile death for a vile deed, Soundless.”  
Despite the precarious position Orlaith stared the Captain down, convicted anger at someone standing between her and a patient overriding all senses of self-preservation.   
“I am a surgeon. You are in my way.”  
“You’ve done enough.” he growled, spittle flying.

Roughly a minute later the resident surgeon burst into the room, Guard on her heels carrying a wooden box of what were presumably her implements. With a glare shared between the defeated-looking Máille and Orlaith she crouched down beside the Duke, laying him out on his side and giving him a cursory examination. After a few seconds she stopped, hands remaining in place, and tilted her head up towards Orlaith.  
“How bad is it?”  
“What?” the Captain burst out, scarcely believing his eyes. “You’re asking- are you not the surgeon?”  
Her tone was filled with what could only be bruised pride, dedication to duty overcoming it.  
“She’s a surgeon and a necromancer. She knows more about his condition just looking at him now than I do.”  
The Captain scowled between both, struggling to restrain himself with a titanic show of will. Going even further he stepped aside, though not without a coldly worded statement that he would be watching. Closely. Orlaith stayed where she was.  
“Rapidly declining. Likely irrecoverably so. Blood loss is only a secondary concern; considering none of his wounds have started to coagulate yet the poison is certainly designed to accelerate that process. I can presume its primary purpose is more lethal and too saturated in his bloodstream to cure.”  
As if on cue the Duke’s body started to seize, poison having finally circulated through his heart. Panicked, the Courtier surgeon could do little more than hopelessly hold their dying superior steady.   
“Nothing? You can do nothing?” the surgeon’s question was rife with accusation.  
“I can extend his life far past fatality, at cost to myself and then the rest of you. Poison is not within my expertise; unless you produce someone for whom it is anything I do is nothing but prolonging the inevitable.”  
“We have herbalists,” the Captain spoke up, evidently putting aside his misgivings. “It will take a few minutes to gather them.”  
Orlaith severely doubted any difference could be made at this point. That being said, to make no effort would only compound the consequences.   
“Make no mistake: Your sustaining life being siphoned is an exceptionally unpleasant experience. What is required from you will only increase as his body naturally weakens further. Removal of the dagger is the current priority.”  
The Courtier surgeon nodded, preparing herself for an operation in which the slightest misstep was certain death.   
“Stop,” Orlaith noticed her hesitation. “You are already moving too slowly. He will be long dead before you even get halfway with the stitching.”  
“Then what’s your suggestion?”  
“I perform it in your place. I will not go so far as to kill you, but you may one by one lose consciousness. Necessity dictates I do not. I can also perform this operation, as they say, ‘in my sleep.’”  
The Captain’s eyes practically bulged out of their sockets but he recognised he had been outmatched, relying on the intuition of his own surgeon who was meanwhile wasting precious seconds thinking.   
“Fine. Fine, but I’ll know if you deviate even slightly.”  
Kneeling and quickly sterilising her hands from the Courtier’s own supply she set her satchel down and started selecting tools, focusing on dividing her attention between the more physical side of the operation and the careful ebb and flow of life. The latent supply from the recently dead would be consumed first, though it was rapidly being burned through. She held little hope for the dispatched Guard’s errand - even if an antidote was on hand - and anticipated throwing herself at the long defeat.


	10. Kingdom on the Run, Fighting in the Sun

The herbalists hurried into a bizarre to the extreme situation, their fading Duke surrounded by progressively more haggard individuals. The Duke’s Guard leaned heavily on their weapons, torn between rigid duty and the urge to collapse, nearly everyone else in the room similarly worn. The one exception was Orlaith whose hands now worked at the Duke’s profusely bleeding wound, soon stained and knees soaked in a veritable pool of blood. Her efforts were pointless; doubtless the Courtier surgeon had come to the same conclusion. Regardless, if she went to the very ends of her capability she had to hope it would go some ways towards persuading the Guard of their innocence. Questions poured out of the new arrivals redirected to the other surgeon; while she felt like her soul was being ripped out of her - which it was - she also wasn’t the one trying to put a dead man back together.  
“No, I don’t know what was used.”  
“I’m not asking you for a _name_ , I’m asking you for _symptoms_.”   
“Sap won’t congeal…” she took a breath, gritting her teeth and pushing through the light-headedness. “Seizures.”  
A quiet voice caused several heads to turn, recent events having all but forgotten Máille.   
“Weakness too. He looked like he was going to collapse before he got stabbed.”  
Máílle struggled to her feet, pushing herself up out of a crouch. The Guard watching her made a token protest through his own suffering, finding little reason to seriously stop her. Half walking and half dragging herself towards Orlaith, the herbalists turned, holding their own council amongst themselves to debate antidotes and whether they had any on hand. Máille stumbled back onto her knees within reach of Orlaith and had to steady herself on her shoulder to avoid falling entirely, much to the working surgeon’s annoyance - whether her voice had become such a whisper intentionally or due to her condition was impossible to ascertain.  
“How much can you take… Without killing me?”  
“Risking permanent organ damage. Brain included.” she didn’t look up from her work.  
“Before that?”  
“Comatose.”  
“For how long?”  
The distraction, were she thinking there was any chance of the patients’ survival, would have tempted her to snap by now.   
“More than a day.”   
Máille hesitated, forcing herself to not collapse pitifully as it felt like the world itself was pushing down on her shoulders, a guttural edge to the command forcing itself through her teeth.  
“Do it.”

Orlaith made the mistake of lifting her head upwards, a surreal feeling washing over her as she witnessed what looked like herself half-dead.   
“No.”  
“If they don’t get something solid,” Máille stopped for a moment, head spinning. “That we didn’t kill him-”  
“And make two patients out of one? Unacceptable.”  
“It’ll be three corpses if you don’t. I’m not going to let…”   
Her voice trailed off as she tried to swallow the dizziness. Holding her gaze for just a moment and unable to come up with a counter-argument, she nodded, drawing the most now from Máille. The change went unnoticed for several seconds until the light in her unfocused eyes sparked out, falling forwards. Anticipating this Orlaith paused her work for a second to catch her, helping her slide down the rest of the way gently and then resuming as if nothing had happened. It was the Captain who cared enough to ask.  
“Is she-”  
“Unconscious and nearly as dead as your Duke. Voluntarily.”   
The herbalists reached a consensus, presenting their conclusion to the Captain. Overhearing it Orlaith noticed all of their solutions included words such as ‘minutes’ at best and ‘hours’ at worst. Having started to transfuse her own life into the Duke this was finally a step too far to abide.   
“Too slow.”  
“Ours isn’t some barbaric practice that starts and ends with a sharpened blade.” one sneered. “It takes time.”  
“Time is a luxury now exhausted.”  
“Then what use are you, hm? Tired of the pretense, assassin?”  
Orlaith leaned backwards, discoloured fingers interlocking as she rested her hands in her lap.  
“He naturally expired approximately six minutes ago. By the time even your simplest mixture is synthesised there will no longer be enough blood in his body to circulate it - assuming he can even still produce an involuntary reaction to ingest it.”  
“Yes, naturally expired. Is that not the only reason you still have a head attached to your shoulders?”  
She may as well have been delivering stern medical recommendations to the any number of people who had sought her aid for the air with which she pushed aside his smug remarks.  
“Short of volunteers lining up to die one after the other, prolonging his life any longer is entirely unfeasible.”  
A finger was pointed at Máille.  
“Start with her.”  
Orlaith blinked, utterly indifferent to all by appearance.  
“That would provide seconds at most.”  
“That gives you a few more seconds to live. You’d take that chance, wouldn’t you?”  
Orlaith got the impression that he wasn’t particularly angry about the Duke’s death; he just very, very strongly disliked her in particular for whatever reason. Orlaith stood, arms falling to her sides.  
“I pronounce your Duke dead. Having an antidote on hand was the only chance; I can do no more.”

A collective weight in the room invisibly lifted. Where before it had felt like some terrible force had dug its claws in and slowly stretched to the point of breaking, and then further still, the easing of that pressure and resultant bliss caused the affected to unintentionally sigh with relief - except for Máille, whose breathing was so shallow one would be forgiven for assuming her dead. The herbalist stared at Orlaith in disgust while the Courtier surgeon could do little more than stare blankly at her Duke’s now still form. The Captain, struggling to pull himself back into a semblance of order, now found his previous hasty stance of an executioner irreconcilable with the recognition of the displayed, albeit failed, effort. Indecision tightly gripping him he elected for more time, trying to force a bite back into his weary bark.   
“Confine them to their quarters. Kill them if they try anything.”  
Of his two subordinates the healthiest hopped to the order, the other hoping for something that wouldn’t involve walking, or moving at all for that matter. Orlaith began to kneel down and, the Captain presuming, quickly turned back towards her.   
“Leave your possessions. They won’t be helping you.”  
Not reaching for the now-unrolled satchel in the first place, his demand did nothing to stop her. Hooking her arms under Máille the Courtier was lifted, a grimace hidden at the armoured weight. With no further complaints raised she trudged after the Guard, head locked forwards and thoughts devoid of any real substance. 

The only indication that they hadn’t been totally forgotten was the occasional mumbled word and shuffling feet as the jailor changed. Hours came and went with no care for their existence. This suited Orlaith who carefully observed Máille inbetween resorting to states of total apathy, uninterested in pondering their position and unable to feel any sort of anger at the fact that ultimately her more-than-likely death was to be the result of a repeat-offender Courtier. Indeed, many of the misfortunes of her life could now be described as the outcome of getting involved with other people - at least Máille had attempted to mitigate it. Eventually - perhaps even the next day for all she knew - the door on the other side of the table she sat at was pushed open, the Captain stepping through. Habit or decorem incited him to remove his helmet once the door shut, balancing it in the crook of his arm, nose wrinkling at the odd, stale scent of dried Sylvari blood lingering in the air. When she had last seen him he had sounded angry; now he only looked tired, dragging his own chair up. Orlaith was content to let him initiate, ensuring a silence that reigned for a few minutes.  
“I have every reason to have you both killed.”  
She did not hide from him nor protest. She met his own stare and spoke as she ever did.  
“And yet here you are. Talking.”  
Leaning forwards, the helmet was set down upon the table.  
“The others you killed, the three-”  
“Two.”  
“I am confident in my ability to count. Excluding the Duke, three deceased.”  
“We killed two. The Duke killed the third himself.”  
He nodded the nod of a man unconvinced.  
“So you say. I want to know what happened in the seconds you were left alone prior to that.”  
“Do you ask with honest intent, or have you already decided on an outcome regardless of my answer?”  
“Don’t presume my intent,” he leaned back in the chair. “You won’t find out otherwise.”  
Once upon a time wasting the time of her interrogator would have been to her advantage; certain it could now only do her case harm she strove for another direction.  
“We had reason to believe they came here to assassinate your Duke. It seems that was correct.”   
“You had reason to believe? From what?”

Deciding it would be far easier to retell the tale insofar as it was relevant, Orlaith concisely recounted what had led them here. He remained quiet as she described their own failed assassination of Duke Domhnaill, the first mention of the ‘Empress,’ the subsequent confirmed killing of Domhnaill and what the unknown Sylvari who had assisted them, and later reappeared only to kill the very same Duke he had directed them towards, had said on both occasions. When certain she had finished he betrayed nothing of his opinion.  
“Duke Domhnaill. If you are indeed responsible for his death, surely you would know the condition of his corpse?”  
“His lower jaw had been ripped off and his skull pierced through the roof of the mouth.”  
“Then,” he steepled his fingers. “You are at least truthful in that respect. He was discovered this morning, dead for some time, and word only reached us a few hours ago. The fact that those three Courtiers had been seemingly unaware of their Duke’s demise is possibly the strongest reason I have for doing this.”  
A short pause passed.  
“There are however… Other things which strike me as odd. The sentries report you both as having arrived alone and keeping to yourselves; the three not so much. While nothing can be connected for certain, I don’t believe us being drawn away from the Hall was chance. I’m likewise disinclined to believe either of you managed to engineer such a ‘coincidence.’”  
“I would be more interested in what you do or do not believe as it pertains strictly to us.”  
“Watch yourself, Soundless. My pursuing of this shouldn’t be taken as a suggestion that I’m convinced of your guiltlessness. Two things in particular in fact do the opposite.”  
“Firstly,” he untangled his hands, raising one and extending the thumb vertically. “The blame being placed on a conveniently impossible to track, mysterious figure who can disappear at will does you no favours.”  
The index finger on the same hand was extended, the articulated bark of his gauntlets creaking.  
“Secondly, the ‘Empress’ doesn’t exist. It is, most tangibly, a political apparition created for the sake of fear mongering.”  
“You may believe that. Nonetheless, someone dictated orders to have your Duke murdered.”  
“And those orders could have easily been dictated to you. Everyone who could support you is strangely absent or dead. Your word means _very_ little.”  
The Captain stood retrieving his helmet, speaking a last time before turning and leaving.  
“Whatever I deem your judgement, it will wait until your fellow is awake.”  
  
Orlaith snapped out of a sleep-like stupor to find Máille in the chair the Captain had been however long ago, leaning forward with arms resting on her knees and staring at the ground. Tilting her head upwards, she stretched her neck with a wince as it cracked.  
“Alright, maybe you do know what you’re talking about,” she lifted an arm to rub the back of her neck, muttering nearly inaudibly. “I feel like I’d rather be dead.”  
“You will recover in a week or so. The headache will pass after a few hours - mentally you sound intact. Unfortunately.”  
It spoke volumes about her status that she had no quick-witted response to that.  
“Are we going to be alive in a few hours?”  
“I don’t know.” she grudgingly admitted.  
“I’ll make it clear that- Wait.”   
Máille suddenly examined Orlaith as if she was the recoveree, eyes narrowed.  
“What did you just say?”  
“I have no idea what the Duke intends.”   
“No - how you said it.”  
Orlaith tilted her head, not noticing anything amiss.   
“What do you mean?”  
“You…” Máille struggled to find the phrasing. “You spoke like a normal person.”  
Orlaith let that stand for a while, not dignifying it with a reaction.  
“As I said, I have been told nothing.”  
Suddenly a very intense spike of pain burst through her head, hands gripping her skull as if trying to hold it together from exploding. Once it passed she no longer considered the oddity worth addressing, and merely did her best to not hear or look at anything that might aggravate the ache again. It seemed to recede at the same pace as the sun, finally calming with the fall of night. The sounds of another guard change played out, although this time the door was opened. Orlaith stood with the expectation the Captain had come to announce their executions, confused instead at the sight of the Courtier surgeon. Stranger still she threw an instantly recognisable satchel over, Orlaith deftly catching it.  
“You’re not as subtle as you think. I heard what you said to each other… And I don’t think you did it.”  
She turned and nudged the door ajar, looking out onto the street before glancing back inside.  
“Move, before anyone comes looking for you.”  
“The one time,” Máille stared at Orlaith dumbfounded. “The one time you talk to someone, it’s what just might get us out of certain death.”

The greatest advantage of the guest quarter was its privacy; no random passerby crossing their paths was a risk, especially since their rescuer apparently had no intention of leaving the traditional way. The Duke’s Quarter had its own gate, one which while normally was guarded now stood vacant, as the surgeon assured them. Misgivings were abound, certainly, but at this point there was little they could do to worsen their chances of survival. Or so they thought. Spotting the Captain standing beside the gate filled them with a sinking feeling long before the thought of betrayal entered their minds.   
“Going somewhere, are you?”  
The three halted in place and the Captain walked forwards. He stopped a foot or two away, his expression unknowable beneath the helmet. A tense second passed before he raised an object hard to make out in the dull light towards Máille.  
“Well? You might want to hurry.”  
The shape resolved itself into Máille’s rifle and sheathed shortsword, Orlaith’s daggers quickly following. The hand she had been inching into her satchel for a scalpel withdrew to take them.  
“Who do you think ordered the sentry away?”   
“What changed your mind?” Orlaith inquired.  
“Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. If it ever turns out for certain you are responsible however: You will be found.”  
Máille secured the sheathed shortsword back to her hip, taking charge of the conversation.  
“You have the gratitude of a Duchess. And, I’m sure, a Soundless, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.”  
“A Courtless Duchess and the Soundless who couldn’t save a Duke. Things will be dire if I ever have to act on either of those.”  
Pragmatism won out over any retort, Captain stepping aside and gesturing towards the unlocked gate. He left them with a final piece of advice as they passed.  
“Don’t stop moving until you see the sun rise. You might not even want to stop for that.”  
Having their own guesses as to how seriously that should be taken, both thought it prudent to follow it more or less to the letter and slipped away into the night.


End file.
